Less Traveled By
by Mirrordance
Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose.  Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way.  Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.
1. Chapter 1

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

First off, I would like to thank all those who read, favorite-d and especially all who reviewed my last post, _The Righteous With the Wicked_. This is a much-delayed and unfortunately not very detailed thanks, but RL just swallowed me whole and suddenly I found I've been fandom-idle for the last four months. And worse, I've been so busy I actually unintentionally racked up my carbon footprint this year with having ridden 19 airplanes so far! Hopefully though, things are now more settled and I can begin to be more active in _Supernatural _again.

To kickstart that activity is the new fic below, _Less Traveled By_, which is basically Dean on the last leg of high school he never got to finish, chronicling how that happened and all the challenges and lost chances in between. It's also going to feature Sam, of the kind I just _miss_ after seeing Season 6 so far. I mean the season is interesting, yes he's hot haha, and I've always been more of a Dean-girl really, but I find I just really miss Sam! Is that strange, haha :)

Anyway, this will be a multi-chapter effort and as always, I look forward to hearing your c & c's so please let me know what you think if you have time. As with every writer here on the site, reviews inspire and excite, and in my case, they make me post chapters sooner than I should, haha! So without further ado, _Less Traveled By_:

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**Less Traveled By**

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1: Your Emergency

" " "

_1997_

" " "

"Get your nose out of that book, Sammy, I mean it," Dean told his brother, who just glanced at him mildly before continuing with what he was doing.

"Sam!" Dean kept his left hand on the wheel of the humming car and swiped blindly at his younger brother with his right one. Distracted though he had seemed with reading, Sam was nevertheless fast enough to dodge, and was still slight enough to press himself against the passenger car door and be out of Dean's reach.

"Lemme alone!" Sam retorted, "I'm so behind it's not funny, Dean, I gotta finish this!"

"Would it hurt to wait ten minutes 'til we get home?" Dean snapped, "It's fricking dark! Ruin your eyes, why don't you, see if I care."

Sam sighed dramatically, but lowered his textbook and let his eyes drift to the window. Night had indeed fallen, just snuck in on him from when he started reading with the late afternoon light just minutes ago.

"It takes more than ten minutes to get back to that dump," Sam commented.

"Well at least you got a roof over your head," Dean snapped, before pointedly putting on the radio, volume turned up.

_Shit_, Sam thought miserably, suddenly bristling with annoyance at himself. Their father had gone on one of his longer absences again and left the two brothers on their own with a piss-poor budget. _And then _he had the gall to call days later and say he was going to take even longer on another hunt near to what he just finished and _did they need more money? _

_Of course_ they needed money; they needed the money even before the extension. But it had been Dean to answer the phone and not Sam. Dean just said, _It's okay, dad. Don't you worry about all that. Just watch out for yourself. Just be careful out there_.

_Just come back_, he didn't say. But they all knew it was at the tail end of all that. Just as they all knew that Dean would say exactly everything that he had said. _It's okay. Don't worry about all that_...

That was what pissed Sam off about their father the most. He knew Dean wouldn't bother him with _tiny _things like money. He damn well _knew_. The pretension of the question and the expected answer that made Dean own the decision was just picking at Sam. Their father just had extraordinary _nerve _in many ways, and not always in the right sense.

Minutes after that call had ended, Dean occupied himself with a sheet of paper, Sam's second-hand calculator, and counting pennies. Sam knew it was coming, but that didn't mean he was any less miserable when the very next day, they moved from the fairly decent motel that was near their school to a dingy studio in the outskirts of town, to make sure they survived on the money left until their dad came back. They've since had to drive to and from school. Every afternoon Dean would stack shelves in the library for some extra cash as he waited for Sam to finish all his extracurriculars so that they could save gas and go home at the same time. The whole situation was as hard for Dean as it was for Sam, and the younger Winchester's realization made him want to kick himself for being unappreciative.

"Dean-"

His older brother muttered a curse, startling Sam into looking at him, wondering if he had offended Dean that much.

"What are you-" Sam asked as he watched Dean shuffling in his seat and trying to get at something from his jeans pockets.

"Grab my damn phone and call 911," Dean barked, and it took Sam but a blink to get into business-mode. Dean had adopted that tone like he says _Down!_ during a hunt; you did as you were told and just asked questions later. Sam concentrated on fishing for Dean's phone, lurched a little when Dean abandoned the search, placed both hands on the wheel, and floored the gas.

"The hell is going on?" Sam demanded when he finally got Dean's phone. He plastered himself to his seat, dialed as instructed and pressed the phone to his ear. He watched, wide-eyed, as Dean weaved around two cars determinedly.

"Dean!" Sam cried out, "What do I say?"

"The white sedan in front of us a sec ago," Dean said quickly, "One of the taillights was busted and I saw fucking _fingers _from the cracked hole, Sammy, fucking fingers, wiggling like there was someone inside the goddamn trunk trying to-"

_"911, what's your emergency?_"

"Oh god," Sam blurted before efficiently relaying, "I'm driving along Daffy-Ashland Way and I think there's someone trapped inside the trunk on the car in front of me. Dean!" he yelled at his brother, "Car and plate?"

"White Ford sedan from late 80's," Dean growled, "Didn't get a good look at the plate. Tell 'em we're in fucking pursuit, don't wanna lose 'em but I think he caught a scent of us, he's moving around like-"

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in alarm as the Impala swerved, narrowly avoiding another car as they weaved their way closer and closer toward the white car, "W-white Ford sedan from l-late 80's," Sam relayed to the operator. He looked away from the action-movie-view of the windshield and turned instead to his brother's set, determined face. It calmed him, and in that split second it dawned on him that what they were doing right now was as much a Winchester's job as hunting things in the dark. His voice came out stronger. "Didn't get a good look at the plates, but we're following so-"

"There!" Dean cried out triumphantly, "The plate number is-"

He never got to continue the rest of what he was going to say. Sam caught the sudden shock in Dean's focused gaze, and he turned his own attention away from Dean's face and toward the windshield. In front of them was indeed the white car, but now with its trunk popped open and a bedraggled girl who apparently jumped right off of it, rolling on the road right on the path of the Impala.

Dean swerved sharply to avoid her.

The car twisted with his command; she would and could always do whatever he wanted. But speed and maybe God and most certainly the laws of physics did not take too kindly to that. The car skidded, turned and fell on its side in a violent slam, turned again and rolled, rolled until it came to a smoking mess of a stop, upside down in the middle of the road.

* * *

_"Saaaaaaaaam?"_

_"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam !"_

The desperate, ragged cry pierced into the darkness like the serrated edge of a knife; it went in and its irregular ends broke through and snagged on skin and flesh, such that when it was pulled out, things got pulled out of the dark and out into the light of the world.

Sam woke to Dean's screams, and the world seemed to just _grow_ around it. Suddenly there were other sounds, and blurred light, and faces over his, and sensations to his body.

"The brother's coming to!" someone exclaimed, and it was just too damn loud.

"Good!" someone else exclaimed, "Tell the older one, it might calm him down!"

"I keep telling him his brother's fine!" another person retorted, "But the kid's pupils are blown and his memory's shot to hell – he keeps forgetting."

_"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam !"_

"Shit, his heart rate's through the roof."

"Sedate him or something!"

"I don't wanna give him anything that makes him fall asleep 'cos we're not sure - Fuck, I coulda sworn he just tried to bite me!"

Sam's body strained in an attempt to move, but he was bound head to toe against a stiff board. Restraints on a Winchester was never a good idea, and he struggled a little in panic – trying to twist to get at the butterfly knife in his pocket - before realizing why he was in this situation. He blinked to greater awareness and realized similarly that if he was hurt from a car crash and immobilized against a backboard, then probably so was Dean. The only difference was that Dean was making enough of a racket such that Sam was sure he was fine; Dean on the other hand, had no idea how Sam was doing.

_I'd freak out too_, Sam thought, as he opened his mouth, licked his lips and tried to speak. He ended up coughing instead.

"!" Dean screamed again, like he had heard him, "Oh god, what's happening, is he-"

"Dean, you seriously have got to calm down," someone said to him, "Sam is fine, he's right here, and he's coming to. But you _have _to calm down."

"Dean," Sam said quietly, and he gulped and said to the person hovering over him, "You... you gotta bring me closer."

The blurry face over his seemed to hesitate, before nodding to the other people around them. Sam felt the board shift and move, and then _finally _felt the back of his right hand brushing the cold, trembling left one of Dean's, lying next to him.

"Dean, you're freaking these people out," he said, attempting for levity.

There was a gasping sort of _swallowed _sob, and it sounded like a shitload of relief to Sam's ear.

"I thought you were-" Dean's statement broke midway, but he was calming at last from the way his heaving breaths sounded, and from the tension Sam felt bleeding away from his hand.

"How bad are you?" he suddenly asked his younger brother, curtly.

"I'm not sure," Sam admitted, "I was out for a few minutes, I guess. And I'm kinda sore, but that's about it. You?"

"Head hurts like a bitch," Dean said, "Nothing I haven't had before."

"I heard them say," Sam hesitated, "You keep forgetting things."

"It'll go away," Dean said confidently, "I've had concussions before."

"How about the ah..." Sam asked, "Did they tell you anything about the girl?"

Dean's hand stiffened again.

"Dean?"

"What girl?"

* * *

The brothers were brought to the hospital in separate ambulances; Dean was sent out first, as the memory-loss was more worrisome than Sam's more lucid state. On the ride over, Sam got to ask the paramedics about what happened since the accident, what they thought was wrong with his brother, and about the girl who had jumped out of the trunk.

"You're very thorough and you don't miss much," one of the personnel attending to him – he saw her name tagged as '_Dulles_' - said with a pleased smile, "That's a good sign."

He pursed his lips impatiently, expecting answers.

Her smile widened, "Well tell me what you remember, and then I'll fill you in with what I know."

It was as much a test of his memory and awareness as a practical recommendation, he knew, so he went with it.

"I wasn't paying attention to the road," Sam began, "Then my brother tells me to call 911, 'cos the car in front of us – it seemed like there was someone stashed in the trunk. He saw fingers wiggling from a hole by the tail lights. By the time I looked, the car was further up front, and Dean drove faster to catch up with it. Dean didn't catch the plates or the model, but if someone stashed someone else in a trunk – well, I guess he wanted to make sure they didn't get away."

"That was very brave of you and your brother," Dulles said, "Some people would have just called for help and left it alone."

"He's not 'some people,'" Sam said quietly, "So we catch up to the car, and Dean was about to tell me the plate number so I can tell the 911 operator. But then the trunk pops open and this girl jumps out right on our way. Dean swerves to keep from running over her, car flips... I wake up and my brother's screaming for me." Sam licked his lips nervously, "So... so really, how is he doing?"

"Well," Dulles replied, "He was awake when we got to the accident site. He was on all fours on your side of the window, checking up on you. Seemed like there was nothing wrong with him at the start; he was talking, told us your names and how to contact your dad, talked about your allergies, even. At worst he seemed shaken up, maybe some busted ribs from how he was holding himself up but nothing too serious. You were the unconscious one so we checked you out first. He hovered a lot, wouldn't let you out of his sight. We told him to stand aside so we can help you better, which knocked sense into him right away so he backed off. A few minutes away from you though and he started screaming, asking if you're alive, asking for us to help you, get you out of the car. We calmed him down, and then a few minutes later he starts up again like he's forgotten you were already being taken care of."

"Concussion," Sam said, hazarding a guess - "Serious."

"Yeah," she admitted, "Had to lie him down after that. But he got top-notch medical attention right away, you know? And he's strong as an ox, fighting all the way. They'll take care of him, Sam."

"What about the girl?" Sam asked, "The girl from the trunk?"

Dulles bit her lip apprehensively, "Oh she had a rough time; broke a few bones, some bruising, burns and scratches from her rough landing. She was conscious and she knew what was going on but she was loopy, seemed to be on the tail-end of some drug with sedative effects."

"So someone really kidnapped her and kept her in the trunk, huh?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dulles replied, "You boys... you boys are heroes, saved that girl's life. You know you might even her know her."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"She's a teenager like you," Dulles said, "Sixteen. I think she goes to the same school as you and Dean. Ever heard of Annie Huntington?"

"No," Sam replied, "We just moved here a couple months back, we don't really know anybody."

"Well she was lucky to have you around then," Dulles said, "Hey we're almost here, we'll be moving you in a bit, okay? But you sound good, Sam. You'll go for a bunch of scans to be sure, spend the night, maybe two. But you sound real good, kid. And good work out there, you and your brother."

"What about the driver of the white car?" Sam asked, "Who was he?"

The ambulance came to a stop, and the double doors at the rear opened.

"He got away," Dulles said.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	2. Chapter 2

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

First off, massive thanks to all who read, alert-ed, favorit-ed and especially all who reviewed the first chapter of my current effort, _Less Traveled By._ More comprehensive review responses should make their ways into your respective mailboxes in the next few days, but I thought I'd get this out here as the first sign of my gratitude. Thank you so much for taking the time to read... as always, your c & c's are welcome and I always, _always _look forward to hearing your thoughts :) Without further ado, Chapter 2 of _Less Traveled By_:

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**Less Traveled By**

" " "

2: One of those Calls

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_1997_

" " "

Dean was still screaming for his brother when they rolled Sam's stretcher into the emergency room. It was still as desperate, but the ragged voice was weakening as its owner lost steam.

"Just tell me," he was begging, "Is he even alive? _Please_..."

"He doesn't quit, does he," Dulles murmured, as she led Sam's team into the curtained partition parallel to where Dean was. She pulled the curtain that separated the rooms aside, saying, "Stand aside, people, give him a view of his brother."

Dean was lying flat on a raised hospital bed, still restrained to a board. Sam could see his chest rising and falling, just about the only part of him that could move, aside from the clawed hands at his sides and the head the medical personnel had freed enough so that he could turn a little bit and face Sam. His watery eyes dulled in relief, and Sam breathlessly held his older brother's gaze.

"I'm okay, Dean," Sam assured him in his strongest voice, "You gotta let them take care of you right now."

Dean gulped back a gasp, and blinked like he was trying to clear his vision, or make sure that the sight of Sam was real, "I'm kinda... I'm kinda confused..."

"You hit your head," Sam explained patiently, "So things are not gonna make a lot of sense for awhile. But I'm fine, okay? You can stand down. Will you remember that?"

"I remember..." Dean murmured, and his eyes started to flutter, "I remember you on the ground, and... and you weren't moving..."

"I was out for awhile but-"

"Was dad in the car?" Dean asked, blinking awake suddenly, and straining as if making an effort to stand.

"Dad's out of town, Dean," Sam told him carefully, noting that the machine tracking his brother's heartbeats showed his pulse pick up, "It was just you and me in the car, and we both made it out all right."

The medical personnel started working around them again, but pointedly made sure Dean had a clear view of his kid brother.

"I thought you were dead," Dean went on, "Dad... dad woulda had my head for that."

"That's it?" Sam teased him gently, "You wouldn't have missed me a little?"

The coaxing did its job, as it almost always did with Dean. It earned Sam a small smile, "I guess I would have," Dean told him, voice thin and weary, "M-maybe...maybe a little."

"Well I'm fine," Sam assured him, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm kinda... I'm kinda confused," Dean murmured again, his eyes drifting and taking on a sheen that was shielding him away from Sam, making the younger Winchester nervous.

It was Sam's turn to bark out his name, and at the absence of a response, he turned to the nurse attending to him, "Should he be falling asleep?"

"Doctor?" the nurse inquired quietly, of the man who was examining Dean's injuries.

"Dean!" Sam yelled at his brother, impatient for an answer, and really, longing only for the one from his brother.

He wasn't the only one, though, and there was some commotion around Dean's bed when two men in suits – detectives by the entitled air and the determined faces, Sam guessed – bullied their way into the area.

"Excuse me?" Dean's doctor said indignantly, "Gentlemen, this area is off-"

"Need to talk to the kid," one of the cops said.

"Dean Winchester is not in any condition to-"

"You know this case, doc?" the cop snapped, "Winchester got into an accident while chasing after a car that had a sixteen-year-old girl named Annie Huntington stashed inside the fucking trunk. We got the girl but that driver got away and Dean here, he saw what kind of car it was, what plates and god knows what else. We gotta talk to him."

"Like I said," the doctor insisted, "He is in no condition to-"

"The girl they just rescued is hysterical," the other detective piped in, "I talked to her a couple of minutes ago. She's freaking the fuck out 'cos she said there was someone else inside the trunk with her."

"That perp is still out there," the first detective insisted, "And there's another girl left inside his goddamn trunk. He knows we're onto him - what do you think he's gonna do to the other one, huh? You do the math."

The doctor bit his lip in thought and said, "You got two minutes."

The detectives took what they could. The medical people gave them some room, and one of them leaned over Dean and his voice turned suddenly gentle. It reminded Sam that easy as it was to forget, people would look at them and still see a bunch of kids.

"Dean?" the first detective called out quietly, "Hey, you with me? I'm Lieutenant Vaughn, this is my partner Diamond. I just need to ask you a few questions."

Dean's brows furrowed, and his eyes blinked vigorously in an effort to be more aware. His breathing picked up, and Sam noted that this time, both he and the doctor looked at the stats on the machines over Dean's head worriedly.

"I wasn't drunk," Dean said, voice thin and wavering, "Following... all... all the rules, I was careful... 'cos Sam, he was sitting up front."

Vaughn frowned in confusion, glanced at Sam, and then looked back down at Dean with more comprehension, "The accident wasn't your fault, Dean, and your brother's fine. I need to talk to you about something else. You were following a car, right? You were following a car because that driver was keeping a girl inside the trunk."

Dean's eyes blinked even more furiously, and his breaths were making him sound like a chugging train, "There was..." he gasped, closed his eyes at a wave of pain in his head, "There was a car accident and... and – Sam!"

"I'm here," Sam said immediately, catching the detectives' eyes again, "Dean, I'm here, I'm fine."

"The car," Vaughn said edgily, looking like he was starting to come to the realization that his investigation would be coming to a standstill with his amnesiac witness, "The car you were following, Dean, you gotta focus. What do you remember about it?"

"Car..." Dean murmured, eyes going aimless again, drifting up to the ceiling, losing focus. His body jerked, making the detectives leaning over him jump in surprise as he exclaimed, "Sam!"

"Dean..." Sam called out, and his own voice was wavering now, both in weariness and in blinding worry, "Dean, damn it, I'm fine!"

"What's wrong with him?" Diamond asked the doctor.

"Hit his head," the doctor replied tersely, and shoved the detectives aside when Dean started to make even more agitated movements. His breath came in loud, inadequate puffs, and his body writhed in anxiety, "Short-term memory's shot to hell, I'm afraid."

"Dad," Dean moaned, turning his head heavily from side to side, "I'm so sorry..."

"I'd say your two minutes are up, boys," the doctor said, "Now I need some room to take care of my patient."

* * *

Naturally, they moved on to Sam next.

They asked him the same things they had asked Dean, as Sam's own doctors and nurses worked on him. He was worried about Dean but was otherwise calm and managed to communicate well. He told them as much as he had told Dulles.

"I didn't see the plates," he said, "By the time I turned to look at the car, the hood of the trunk was popped, and the girl was on the ground. It all happened so fast."

"It all happened in less than a minute," Diamond told him, "From the the time you made the 911 call 'til your car crashed. You boys acted fast, saved that girl's life. But now you have the chance to save someone else, Sam. Annie is insisting there was someone else - another girl - inside the trunk with her. You remember seeing anything like that?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted, "All I know is that the trunk was open, the girl was on the road, and then Dean swerved to keep from hitting her. I didn't see anyone else or anything else. Like I said – it was everything happening at the same time, too fast. Didn't... didn't the other drivers see anything? There were other cars on the road."

"What they looked at more was a speeding, black '67 Impala weaving past everyone," Vaughn said, "Can't say as I blame 'em; that thing is cherry, if I may say so myself. But then again, that doesn't take me anywhere on this case."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, "I wish I could help you more. Dean was gonna tell me the plates just before we crashed. But... well..." his eyes drifted over to his brother, who'd fallen silent. His eyes were half open, looking up at god knew what on the ceiling. His breathing seemed easier, and his body was pliant now. Sam suspected he'd been given something.

"Yeah," Vaughn winced, looking at Dean too, "I guess that's it for now, Sam. But you'll be seeing a lot of us in the next few. Gonna keep coming back and maybe when your brother gets better, he'll be able to tell us more. In the meantime, I'm shaking up the other witnesses on the road. You're absolutely right, someone had to have seen something we could use."

"Why would anyone kidnap Annie?" Sam asked.

Diamond's brows rose in surprise, "That's tricky too. The family's loaded so it could be kidnapping for ransom, but then if there's another girl with the same profile... we can be looking at a sexual predator. You seem like a smart kid, Sam, I'm sure we don't have to tell you that anything at all that you or your brother can remember can really help."

"We'll let your doctors work," Vaughn finished.

"Good luck, Detectives," Sam said, "Oh hey, you have any idea how my brother's car is doing? It's the first thing he'll ask about when he starts to feel better."

"I'd say it's the _second_ thing he asks about," Vaughn told him pointedly, "But your brother's car is fine, Sam. A little bit of a fix-up, naturally, but tell him to focus on healing up, all right? It was a good, heroic thing, what you boys did. Just focus on getting better, and we'll get the bastard who's behind all this soon enough."

* * *

It was one of those phone calls a father is never ready to get.

John was used to receiving calls from unregistered numbers; people in trouble who got his name from someone else, a fellow-hunter covering up his tracks with another new phone, informants, and so on. A hospital though... that's a kick in the gut.

The very moment the calm voice introduced himself as "_Dr. Bradley" _and mentioned "_Ashland Midway Memorial_"already had him jogging for his car. _"Your sons"_ and "_Car accident"_ had him flooring the gas, tempting his own fate, as he sped down the long road home.

"I'll be there in about five hours," he said tersely, "What happened?"

His heart thundered in his ears and he felt vaguely nauseated, stomach in knots. He'd was worried about the hunt he was doing alone, worried about not having left his sons enough money, worried about teenagers being teenagers, and worried about where to get the money to feed them. Life kept throwing him goddamn curveballs, and now here he was, saddled with that one thing that hadn't crossed his mind. _Car accident_...

"A detective will be contacting you about more details on the incident itself, Mr. Winchester," Bradley said, "The most I can speak of is their medical condition."

"Are they..." he bit on _alive_, "Awake? Can I talk to Dean?"

The doctor took a breath to speak, and John's gut tightened all the more. He took it out on the wheel of his truck, and the gas pedal.

"They're both sedated at the moment," Bradley explained, "And in the middle of undergoing some tests. Sam was unconscious when the paramedics reached them, but he was roused on the scene, and he has since been very responsive. He appears to have a mild concussion and will undoubtedly have some extensive bruising, but we'll be conducting some tests to make sure that's all we have to deal with. His prognosis is excellent, but we're keeping him at least overnight for observation. Dean," he took another deep breath, "Is a more complex case.

"He was conscious and walking on the scene," Bradley explained, "But it was soon apparent that he was already suffering from post-traumatic amnesia – he could not remember the circumstances around the accident, and is having trouble retaining memories just after it. There's been a deterioration in lucidity and consciousness since we took him in, but it's likely he's just tired himself out. We are already examining his scans on priority, and we will be ready to go into further procedures, if necessary, with your permission, of course"

"The hell does that -"

"If we have to go into surgery," Bradley expounded, "I will surely be able to tell you more when you arrive, Mr. Winchester. But for now, rest assured that your boys are stable and well-looked-after. Just get here as soon as you can, and expect to be contacted by either a..." Bradley paused, as if looking for a name, and John could hear the shuffling of sheafs of paper, "A Detective Vaughn or a Detective Diamond."

"Is that par for the course?" John asked, "To be called by the cops? Or did something else happen? Was anyone else hurt? Was someone drunk, or -"

"There is some criminal element to the accident," Bradley said, "But not what you'd normally think. I suggest you turn on the news, Mr. Winchester. Your boys are heroes."

John blinked, taken slightly aback by that, speaking of goddamned curveballs. The truth was though, he didn't need them to be heroes; he realized that all he wanted was for them to be alive, and for them to be around him.

* * *

More calls came in after that – Bobby Singer, Jim Murphy, a couple other acquaintances, some people he helped out from before – asking if what they saw in the news was true, asking if he or the boys needed anything. In minutes someone was taking care of his half-done hunt, someone was taking care of picking up and repairing Dean's car. He did not have many friends, but what there was... was invaluable.

He reached the hospital in a white-knuckled three hours, stole a parking space from an old couple about to make the turn in. The main entrance was blocked through with press people, something he expected given what he'd heard on the news on his way there.

_"Sixteen-year-old high school junior Annie Huntington was abducted from just outside her school late afternoon today, drugged and stuffed inside the trunk of a white late-80s sedan by an unknown kidnapper,_" the reporter had stated. It was a simultaneous radio and television air of the local nightly news, _"Emulating what she had learned from TV crime show_ Call of the Blue, _she tore at the upholstered covering of the interior of the trunk, broke into the lights and wiggled her fingers so that people on the road would know she was inside."_

Her tone turned scripted-astonished in that typical reporter fashion as she continued, saying, "_Brothers Dean and Sam Winchester, just seventeen and thirteen years old, were driving home from volunteer library work and Latin Club -_

_God_, John thought morbidly, _the news made his young troublemakers sound like a coupla saints..._

"_ - and spotted Annie's fingers through the broken lights,_" she went on, talking to her co-anchor now, "_And Bob, these remarkable boys not only called 911, they went in pursuit of the car. When Annie managed to pop open the trunk and jumped onto the road, the Winchesters swerved to avoid hitting her and their car rolled, leaving both boys injured, and the unknown kidnapper still at large. Worse still, Annie is insisting there was another girl with her inside the trunk, elevating the urgency of the case. If anyone out there has any information, or was along Daffy-Ashland Way between 5 PM to 6 PM today and may have seen something, please, please call the number on your screen – you really don't know what information out there can help move this case forward._"

"_Any word on those two boys, Shelly?"_ Bob asked.

"_For that update and more, we have Bench Brackett right outside Ashland Midway Memorial, where all three teenagers were taken in for emergency care. Bench?_"

John pushed his way past the crowds, was halted by a guard at the door. He muttered that he was John Winchester, in as low a volume as he could manage, unwilling to be subject to the media vultures. The guard's eyes widened marginally, before discreetly leading John inside. The guard went on his radio and minutes later, John was in the admission wing, in front of Doctor Bradley.

"Where are they?" he asked, right off the bat. He could feel eyes on them, the nurses, the doctors, the guards. For a man used to living under the radar, the scrutiny made him _itch_, but that was a problem he'd have to take care of later, after seeing with his own eyes that his sons were all right, after he hears Dean say _It's okay, Dad, _after he hears Sam bitch about missing even more school. Only then could he take care of anything else.

"Mr. Winchester-" Bradley began.

"John," the hunter rapidly corrected him; that would save them four syllables and a couple of seconds from here on out.

"We've put Sam and Dean in a private room," Bradley reported, "They were assigned a minor security detail, at the recommendation of Detectives Vaughn and Diamond, because they are important witnesses to a crime with the perpetrator still at large. Did the police get in touch with you?"

"No," John replied, "I only know what's going on from you and from the news."

Bradley nodded, "They will probably just speak with you here-"

"Can you just take me to them?" John cut him off, "All right? Take me to them, and then we talk about everything else. I can't... I can't fucking hear anything else right now..."

"Walk with me," Bradley said, "They're both resting. Sam's asleep, but we'll wake him up. He asked to be woken when you arrive, and it's about time for some cognitive tests anyway. Dean's still under - his scans have showed minor traumatic brain injury, which accounts for the memory-loss. We've had to go in the OR for some repairs but nothing too invasive, and we expect him to recover fully in no time. We've put him on oxygen but you shouldn't let that alarm you. It's on account of a couple cracked ribs from colliding with the steering wheel, compounded by the anesthesia from the surgery and a few other meds he's on that depresses respirations. It's just a precaution, we don't want him to work too hard breathing, he needs all the rest and recovery he can get."

"Okay," John said, bracing himself as the two men stopped in front of a door manned by a uniformed guard, "Lemme in."

Bradley led the way inside the dimly lit room, and was surprised to find Sam not only awake, but perched on the edge of his bed, feet hanging on the narrow space between his bed and Dean's, tightly gripping his IV pole pale and huffing, looking like he was on his way toward his brother.

"Sam!" John exclaimed, pushing Bradley aside and putting his hands to his son's face, turning up Sam's head to look at him. One eye was swollen shut, and the entire side of his face was bruised. His eyes were watering aggressively, the pupils slightly unequal, but he was as sharp and aware as always.

"Dad," he gasped out, blinking repeatedly, "You're back."

"Yeah, kiddo, I'm here," and saying the latter made his throat close up a little, "Whatcha doing up, huh, Sammy?"

"'Was ch-checking on D-Dean," Sam replied, "He wouldn't w-wake up."

"He'll be under for a little bit longer, Sam," Bradley explained mildly from behind John, "But we told you not to worry, do you remember-"

Sam recognized he was being tested and he impatiently filled in, "Minor traumatic brain injury, post-traumatic amnesia, busted ribs. But he'll be fine. Yeah, I remember. But I just... I just..."

"It's okay, Sammy," John soothed, settling his younger son back down in bed. Sam struggled half-heartedly, eyes on his brother, but eventually just let his father lay him back down and put a thin blanket over him, "They're taking good care of him, and I'm here now."

"But he's so quiet," Sam murmured, "He's never this quiet. He was... he was screaming his lungs out when they brought us in."

"Screaming?" John asked, turning to Bradley inquisitively.

"For Sam," Bradley explained, "He kept demanding for someone to look at his brother."

John bit his lip and nodded, turned to his unconscious eldest. Bradley was dreaming if he thought any parent could keep from feeling alarmed by the sight of the tube feeding his son oxygen through his nose, or Dean's bruised, uncharacteristically slack face beneath a bandage wound around his head. His muscles were so relaxed that he looked just like a pile of cloths on the bed, as inanimate as the wires and the blankets.

_He's never this quiet..._

"Aw, Dean..." He murmured, and then checked himself, because Sam was watching. Sam was watching him and taking cues. Usually this burden fell on Dean; the younger brother would see the world as Dean painted it. A miserably long drive was a road trip. Cheap, awful food was consumed based on a dare. An old box is a fort... John realized he'd gotten rusty at projecting that level of confidence and certainty.

A clipped knock on the door had him turning in that direction. Two men in cheap suits stepped inside, introduced themselves as Detectives and asked to speak with him.

"Heya Sam," they also greeted the younger Winchester, "How 'ya doin, buddy, remember us?"

"Yeah," Sam answered warily, "Vaughn and Diamond. You were there when we were brought in, in the ER. Any luck with finding the other girl?"

"Wish I could have gone in here with good news, Sam," Vaughn said, "But no, not yet. Maybe when your brother wakes up, he'll be able to help us, huh?"

"Mr. Winchester?" Diamond asked, "A word with you outside?"

"Can you spare me a sec?" John asked Bradley.

"I'll just ask Sam a couple of things to check his memory," Bradley replied, "From what I've seen in the last few minutes though, he already seems to be doing excellently. You can go ahead, John."

"Sam, you good without me?" John checked.

"Go on, dad," Sam encouraged, waving him off as the doctor sat by his arm on the bed. John stepped out of the room with Vaughn and Diamond, and the three men found a quiet space at the end of the hall.

"How much of what happened here do you know about, Mr. Winchester?" Vaughn asked.

"Call me John," he told them before replying, "Just from what's on the news. There was this girl in a trunk."

Diamond nodded, and then drew out a small recorder, "This is a tape of the 911 call your sons made." He pressed play, and John's brows furrowed as he listened:

_A ring, and a quick answer: "911, what's your emergency?"_

_"Oh God," Sam said, _and in those two words it bled that he was just thirteen years old, before the more efficient, if slightly shaky continuation_: "I'm driving along Daffy-Ashland Way and I think there's someone trapped inside the trunk on the car in front of me." He pulled his mouth away from the speaker and yelled at his brother, "Dean! Car and plate?"_

_"White Ford sedan from late 80's," _John heard Dean growl in the background_, "Didn't get a good look at the plate. Tell 'em we're in fucking pursuit, don't wanna lose 'em but I think he caught a scent of us, he's moving around like-"_

_"Dean!" _Sam exclaimed in alarm, and always in the background, John could hear the hum of the car as she went fast and hard and harrowing. Even though he knew he was listening to the past, these sounds were unkind to his nerves as a father.

_"W-white Ford sedan from l-late 80's," Sam relayed to the operator, shakily, until his voice hardened and strengthened, "Didn't get a good look at the plates, but we're following so-"_

_"There!" Dean cried out triumphantly, "The plate number is-"_

His voice and thought got lost in the jarring sounds of screeching wheels and twisting metal, and the sickening muffled _umphs_ of bodies being tossed inside a tumbling vehicle. John's legs wobbled where he stood, breath coming in hard and tight at what could have been the sound of his two sons _dying_.

_"Sir?" the 911 operator called out, "Sir are you there? Sir? We're tracing your call and sending help, all right? Sir? Sir, are you-"_

Diamond cut off the recording at more unanswered calls by the operator, looking at John intently, "That perp is still out there, John, and all of our techs have listened to this thing inside and out, hoping to get an idea of what that plate number was, but no luck. The girl your boys helped rescue insists there was someone else inside the trunk with her, and we have no lead to go on, no lead but your boys, and what they can remember."

"We can't stress enough how urgent this is," Vaughn added, "That kidnapper knows we're onto him, so he'll probably ditch whoever else he got with him and that can't be good for that girl. What we're saying is we understand Dean is hurt, but we need his help, and you'll be seeing a lot of us."

"The doc says he expects the amnesia to fade in as early as 24 hours," Diamond piped in, "We won't expect Dean to remember much from just after the accident because this information wasn't encoded in his injured head properly, but the stuff before he hit his head should be recoverable. That plate number's in there somewhere and we mean to get at it."

"We'll help any way we can," John said, "They're good kids, and I can promise you now, Dean'd kill himself tryin'. You'll know something as soon as I do."

**TO BE CONTINUED**...I hope to catch y'all soon. 'Til the next post!


	3. Chapter 3

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

First off, MASSIVE thanks to all who took the time to read, alert, favorite, recommend and review the previous chapter of my latest effort, _Less Traveled By_. More extensive review responses should make their respective ways into your inboxes in the next few days/hours, but in the meantime, I thought I'd show my gratitude with an update of the story :) As always, thank you for your attention and I heartily welcome your thoughts and C & C's so please send them my way if you have the time :) Without further ado, Chapter 3:

* * *

**Less Traveled By**

3: Inside Voice

_1997_

* * *

_I've been here before_.

The thought was dark but then again, so was the room he was in and so was the world with his sons dead to it.

Sam and Dean slept on beds parallel to each other, and the nurses brought John a cot that they set up against the wall with the room's singular, shaded window. It was in effect the bed furthest away from the door, which rankled at his hunter's sensibilities more than a little, so he chose instead to settle on a cushy armchair next to Dean's bed. His back was to the door but at least this way, he could see his sons and no one could get to them without going through him first.

Order and mission kept him sane in many ways, and this would not be the first time. After Mary... _Mary_... how could a goddamn name hold so much weight after so long? And did she have to have a common one that he would keep running into again and again along the course of this miserable life? John thinks that even one of Sam's nurses is called Mary, her tag said so-

- After she died, it was how he kept himself and his boys alive and functioning. Do your job. Keep your head. Find her killer. Kill whoever else comes in between. Protect your children.

He scoffed a little bit at that. There can only be so much a guy can put into his control, and this accident that the boys had gotten into was testament to that. They have been hurt before and probably worse, but this latest incident felt so strangely wrong and unseating because misfortunes by random chance... well. He'd always been paranoid about great designs against his family, and now he had to contend with _normal shit_ too?

_I've been here before_, he thought, and there was a weird comfort to it that both eased and sickened him. Having been here once before meant their lives sucked, but it also probably meant that they could survive it.

Sam had drifted back to sleep after Bradley's check-up and after bothering John for a half hour asking about Dean. Sam had known the factual answers of course, even retained the technicals better than his father, but he needed the nonverbal cues of reassurance and it took John ten minutes to figure that out. He was rusty at this, out-of-practice, having relegated the job to Dean for so long now. It was probably why the kid just up decided to sleep on him.

John settled on the seat, watched his two boys resting, pensively. Sam stirred, open his eyes a little. He found himself hoping for his youngest to wake-up, break the misplaced monotony of what are essentially some pretty _sad shit_, but the kid just glared at his sleeping older brother and huffed before going back to sleep. The sound was comically derisive, un-self-conscious. It sounded indignant, like Dean wasn't allowed to be asleep because Sam was already awake. John chuckled a little at that.

The nurses brought him a cup of coffee and a sandwich as the hours moved into the pre-dawn and melted into morning. A couple of patients from the same floor shared their flowers and teddies, commiserating with him and with his heroic kids. Most of this stuff he just shoved in a closet and he let the cop outside the door know that he had no room for more. John had also declined a planned visit from the three TV stars of _Call of the Blue_, who'd heard about the teenage heroes and wanted to visit the boys and also boost their ratings with the PR.

He really did not appreciate all this attention on their family, but at the same time he appreciated profoundly that hunt or no, he'd raised his boys with the orientation of helping people. He just wished sometimes that they could turn that _damned_ selfless streak off when he wasn't looking, when he wasn't with them, when he couldn't look after them.

He took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. He thought back to that 911 call, at the sheer presence of mind of his sons. He thought about Sam's young voice, shaken but determined, growing stronger and stronger as he got deeper and deeper into the situation. And then there was Dean's determined growl, acting without hesitation. He wasn't a fool about the things he lacked as a father, but sometimes... sometimes he really did feel like he did something right. Something right, at least, some of the time.

But he really could not shake that alien feeling in his chest. During hunts his expectations were high, and while a father will always worry about his children, there was almost a sense of comfort to the hunt because one could prepare, and create a sense of predictability. There were specific rules, and there were specific rites... randomness though, randomness he couldn't take, and what had happened to his sons today was illustrative of the fact that life can just take a dump at you sometimes, and that was just her being a bitch.

Dean started coming to, and this pulled him back to the here-and-now. He could see his eldest son's arm muscles tightening, his fingers curling at the sheets. John rose from his seat, leaned over his son as Dean flinched, frowned, fought his way awake to a slitted, glistening gaze.

"Heya Dean," John told him quietly; he knew from unfortunate personal experience that head injuries were a bitch with noise, "You with me?"

It was just mouth and air moving, really, no sound, but John could have heard that breathy "Dad," in his dreams.

"Yeah, it's me."

Dean gulped, licked his lips, closed his eyes like he could only do one thing at a time. A deep line marked the space between his brows.

"Did we get it?" he croaked, and this question turned John's blood cold.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Why else," Dean bit back a groan as he shifted in bed, "Why else would I be in... in a hospital."

"You were in a car accident," John told him carefully, "With Sam-"

He should have known that would be a mistake but like he said... he was_ rusty, and very possibly even corroded. _Dean could have suddenly been struck by lightning, the way he reacted. His eyes snapped open, and he pushed himself up to sit suddenly, a paramount mistake for his head and rib injuries. John called out for help in a panic when Dean's eyes scrunched closed, and he pressed fists against his head as if to push in his pain. He curled into himself, descending back to bed, already gagging. John turned him on his side as he got sick.

Dean clenched his eyes shut at the pain in his head and his ribs from the heaving, didn't appear to care where the damned lost lunch landed as long as he got rid of it. He finished with empty coughs, his ragged breathing the dominant sound in the room. A couple of nurses came in to clean him up.

When John had his sons to himself again, Dean was once more out for the count and _yeah, _damn it_, I've been here before._

* * *

There were a couple of well-wishers John did not have the heart to turn away.

A wheelchair-bound Annie Huntington, pushed into the room by her parents Jed and Margie, came by a few minutes after a nurse brought in Sam's breakfast. The Huntingtons brought non-hospital fare for John in an honest-to-god picnic basket of warm, freshly baked breads, sliced fruit and hot gourmet coffee on a thermos. He preferred meat and grease generally, but it sure as hell was not that bad.

"You shouldn't have-" he told them, especially since them bringing in the food might mean they meant to stay for a little bit. Sam still looked green and uncomfortable, sitting up in bed half-awake and playing with his bland oatmeal and flat water.

"Nonsense, John," Jed insisted, "It's the very very least we could do for you and your boys!" He was a festive, gregarious type, John pegged, overly-familiar, had already sat on John's cot and was clinging to his pillow, looking right at home.

"Use your inside-voice, Jed," his wife admonished him, "Dean is still sleeping."

"He's concussed to his eyeballs, dear, he won't hear a thing," Jed said with a casual wave of his big hands, "'Sides, I'm sure he'll be glad we kept his old man company, eh, John?"

_He'll be laughing it up all right_, John thought miserably, and that was only because his eldest son had a perverse sort of humor about inappropriate situations, including one wherein his surly father had to behave and entertain unwelcome civilians.

"How you doin' there, Annie?" John asked the girl instead; she was quiet and pensive, probably had the grace of her mother instead of the sheer overpowering joviality of her father. She kept glancing Dean's way.

"Is he really okay, Mr. Winchester?" she asked.

"He's fine, sweetheart," Jed assured her boldly, but she was staring at John, waiting for his answer.

"He's fine," it was Sam who replied curtly, booking no objections and entertaining no doubts, "He just needs some time."

"And you, Sam?" she inquired.

The youngest Winchester shrugged, "We should be asking you that."

She bit her lip, shook her head at some thought that streaked her mind that she did not voice. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it up again to say instead, "I can't stand it, the idea that he's just... he's just out there." Her eyes watered, "And that he's g-got an-nother g-g-g-"

"Shush, Annie," Jed said, "You shouldn't think about that right now, just focus on getting better, sweetie-"

"When else should I?" Annie snapped at him, angrily swiping at her eyes, the IV from her wiry hands flailing around, "I'm f-fine, dad, I am. But he's out there, and he's hurting someone right now."

"The girl you were with inside the trunk," John said, "She have a name? What does she look like? Have they cross-checked her description with any missing person?"

"You got a background in this, John?" Jed asked, "Cops were talking about the same things."

"Community nightwatch," John lied easily, "In one of the old places we used to live in, had to go for some training." He focused his attention on the teenage girl, felt her need and sheer hunger to be doing something, "If the cops can't find the perp from your kidnapping, they can probably give it a shot by tracing it from the other kidnapping."

"Her name is Linda," Annie said, "I told her my name too and I said that I was taken from school. I couldn't turn to see her, she was lying behind me, whispering by my ear."

"Cops are probably looking through missing Linda's in the area," John assured her, "They'll cross-check it out of state too if they don't find anything. Did she have an accent of some kind? Did she talk about anything else that has anything to do with a place – cultural references, landmarks, things like that?"

Annie blinked aggressively, trying to remember as much as she could, "I woke up in the trunk and it was really dark and really, really cold. I was shivering, and the doctors said it was probably from the drugs wearing off. I thought I was all alone at first. I was lying on my side, facing the door of the trunk, and then there was this voice behind me, right by my ear. She said 'Are you okay?'

"I was so cold I could barely move," Annie recalled, "My skin felt numb, I couldn't feel anything, I could barely think. I asked her what was going on. I was confused and scared and at first I thought she was in on it, and that maybe my eyes were blindfolded or something. She told me she couldn't remember much but she thinks we're inside the trunk of someone's car. It all came back to me after that. I told her someone grabbed me from outside my school. She said she couldn't remember anything after stepping out of her house this morning, and she was getting agitated trying to remember. She was scared, Mr. Winchester... her voice was shaking, and started rising."

"What else did you talk about?" John asked.

"John -" Jed cut in warily, not wanting to subject his daughter to the stress of the conversation. It was the first time John had seen the joviality fade from his eyes. They were, after all, coping in their own ways.

"Dad, I gotta do this," Annie assured him, "I told her people will look for us, I told her we were going to be okay. I knew I was lying, even then, I knew I was lying. But she sounded so scared. She started crying, and I really didn't know what to do or what else to say. She was just crying and crying and I started getting mad for the two of us. I started kicking and punching at the door and the corners and everything I could reach. That's when I remembered that really awful TV show, and what this v-victim did when she got trapped in the trunk. Next thing I know, I feel the air outside, and some light came in from the hole I had broken through. I could see what I was doing now, and I remember I kept telling Linda, 'We're gonna get out, we're gonna get out.' I clawed at the upholstery, found the latch locking the trunk and fiddled with it, and then I was rolling out.

"I can still hear her crying," Annie told John gravely, her eyes suddenly decades older, "I think I'll always hear her crying."

* * *

The Huntingtons left when Annie turned quiet, had apparently tired herself out. Sam gave her a quick wave as her mother and father wheeled her away. She gave him a small smile just before John closed the door behind them.

"You ain't eating," John told his younger son flatly, nodding at Sam's still-filled bowl. The older Winchester skipped the seat by the door that he'd been on all night and went over to the cot by the window, which was nearer to Sam.

"Don't want to rush it," Sam said, adding quickly, "But I get it, I have to finish it and I will. Just not so fast."

"Good," John said, rubbing at his face wearily, "Unless you ah... you want me to call anyone? Get your head sorted?"

"Nah," Sam replied, "I'm fine. Doctor Bradley said so too."

Father and son fell to companionable silence as Sam alternately played with and nibbled at his food. "Dean would hate this," he commented blandly, "He would be moaning and groaning and complaining and everything. If he doesn't projectile it into my head."

"I can't wait," John snorted.

"Did he wake up?" Sam asked, "While I was out, I mean."

"For a little, yeah," John winced, "He tried to get up, got sick, so he's back under."

"He would," Sam sighed melodramatically.

"But you know," John told him quickly, "What that doc said. All this shuteye, it's expected, he's gonna be fine."

Sam glanced at Dean at that, and then nodded. He tilted his head at his father in consideration, "Why were you asking Annie that stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sounded like you were on a hunt, that's all," Sam explained.

"Couldn't hurt to ask I figured," John answered, "Maybe there are things we could look into, with the channels that we have."

"'Cos hunters are kind of like investigators too," Sam pointed out.

"You can say that," John agreed.

"And whoever came after her could come after us, right?" Sam asked, "'Cos we know stuff? That's why there's a cop at the door."

"Well they can try," John assured him, "But it'll be a bitch to get past me."

Sam pressed his lips together in consideration of his father, "If you're here."

"The hell does that mean?"

"They can't get past you if you're here," Sam said warily, "But if you're not, which you sort of are... a lot..." his voice drifted to a mumble, turned uncertain. It was the only reason John could rein in his temper at the shy but also unquestionable accusation.

"I ain't going anywhere, Sam," John growled, "Not 'til this thing gets squared away. You know that, right?"

"I know," Sam said quietly, "I know."

* * *

The next time Dean woke, the very first thing John thought to say was, "Sam's fine, before you ask, all right? He's fine. Dean? You hear me?"

"Sam's fine," Dean echoed gravely, as his eyes fluttered open and settled questioningly on his father's face, "Of course he's fine, dad, what are you - "

John sat by his arm on the hospital bed, helped him drink a few sips of water from a straw, "You know where you are?"

Dean blinked at him heavily, but looked like he was determined to stay awake. He raised up his right hand, brought it up to the bandage on his head. He looked around the room to orient himself. When he found Sam asleep on the bed next to his, he glared at his father accusingly.

"You said-"

"He's just sleeping," John told him quietly, "Tired himself out, waiting for you to wake up. I'm gonna hit the call button in a bit, let your docs know you're awake, and a whole bunch of other people who've been waiting for you. But I need to talk to you first."

Dean's eyes were still on Sam, and a frown was still marring his face.

"Dean!" John snapped, "You listening, boy?"

"He's just sleeping," Dean said carefully, and raised his hand to his head again, "But I can't... I don't..."

"What's the last thing you remember?" John asked.

Dean pursed his lips in thought, pressed his palms more firmly against his head, "Car...? Car," he decided more firmly, watching his father's face for non-verbal cues, "We were in the car. No... no hunt?"

John frowned, "Dean -"

"Okay, no hunt," Dean murmured, as if he was sifting around in his head and reading his father's face for the right answer.

"Son, listen," John said after a moment of thought, "This is very important. I know you don't want to scare me or scare your brother, but if you're feeling poorly, or if your memory's all screwed up and there are things you can't get into, you have to be honest, all right? Don't pretend you're fine when you're not, don't push when you can't go further, don't be scared to tell me if there are things you don't know or aren't sure of. If you're stressed and you hurt yourself more, the memories won't come back any sooner. You hear me?"

"What's going on?" Dean asked, green eyes going wide, "What memories? Dad?"

"You hear me?"

"I hear you, I do," Dean insisted, "But I'm pulling up a lot of blanks here and you're really starting to scare me."

"Dean," John began, "About this accident..."

* * *

John gave Dean a quick and dirty version of the events that led them to where they were, which predictably agitated him. He sat up, started shifting his weight around restlessly and asking for coffee (which was denied), and asking for the detectives investigating the case to come see him. It was the middle of the night and he didn't give a shit – this request was granted - ready and eager to be grilled, willing for his memories to be jogged back.

Vaughn and Diamond came in right away, with Bradley sitting in on the interview to gage what Dean's condition was and to pull the plug on the whole thing if he thought they were making things worse and compromising his patient's recovery. Sam had woken up to the general commotion, puzzled to find his and Dean's room filled with people: John standing by a chagrined-looking Dean, the two detectives, Doctor Bradley, and some cops hungry for Dean's statement.

Despite the commotion, Sam was not surprised at all that Dean knew the moment he was awake. The brothers stared at each other through the spaces between people's elbows and bodies and arms, their gazes solid and unyielding.

_He looks scared_, Sam thought of his brother, and he nodded at Dean resolutely in encouragement. The elder Winchester looked embarrassed by the attention and the fuss, pale and slumped against his pillows.

"Okay, Dean," Vaughn told him, "You ready?"

Dean gave him a short nod, "Yeah."

"You know why we're here?" Vaughn asked him.

Dean nodded again, "Yeah. My dad told me, and I saw some of it on the news tonight."

"Any of what you heard about sound familiar to you?" Vaughn pressed.

"No," Dean said, and his voice was a whisper, sounding grave and disappointed, "No."

"That's all right," Vaughn assured him, "We'll work around it, and slowly, all right?"

"What was the last thing you remember, before waking up here?" Diamond asked him gently. Sam knew Dean hated that tone right off the bat, like he was some sort of victim they had to be delicate with.

Dean's brows furrowed, and his eyes took on a sheen, his gaze turning distant. "I was in the c-car," he replied, "My brother was on the front seat." His breath started to pick up, "B-but it makes no sense 'cos... 'cos then, next thing I remember he's on... on the ground. His clothes are different... m-maybe a d-different day? Or was th-that some blood, I think... B-but I'm not all that sure when that was, what came first, it's all... mixed up..." his eyes shot to Sam's in alarm, as if assuring himself that it was just a memory, and that things were better now.

"Dean," Vaughn said carefully, "I'm going to tell you what part of your memory we are most interested in. There is this space, between things being fine and Sam beside you on the car, and then Sam unconscious on the ground. That is what we most need. You saw something on the road, and told your brother to call 911. Do you remember that?"

"No," Dean whispered, "Not right now. But I can, I know I can. I've been remembering more and more since I woke up." His heartbeat was picking up, and they all sensed that in the room from the sound of the machine. This irritated Dean, that vulnerability and overexposure, and his pulse picked up slightly even more.

"It's okay, Dean," Bradley quickly assured him, "If you just take it easy, it'll all come back on its own, just wait and see."

"Don't have the time," Dean bit back at him.

"We have a recording of that 911 call you and your brother made," Diamond said, "I think if you listened to it, you might remember more. Do you mind?"

"Go, go," Dean insisted, "Please."

Diamond did as instructed, and pressed 'play' on his handy recorder for Dean, as he had for John earlier.

_A ring, and a quick answer: "911, what's your emergency?"_

_"Oh God," _Dean heard Sam's voice, shaky but determined_: "I'm driving along Daffy-Ashland Way and I think there's someone trapped inside the trunk on the car in front of me." _He pulled his mouth away from the speaker and yelled at his brother_, "Dean! Car and plate?"_

_"White Ford sedan from late 80's," _Dean heard himself in the background. It was surreal, how he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the speaker was himself and yet he had no recollection of the exchange at all. His brows furrowed in concentration, and he leaned forward, listening intently.

_"Didn't get a good look at the plate,"_ he had gone on, "_Tell 'em we're in fucking pursuit, don't wanna lose 'em but I think he caught a scent of us, he's moving around like-"_

_"Dean!" _Sam exclaimed in alarm, and Dean could hear the car purr in the background.

_"W-white Ford sedan from l-late 80's,"_ Sam relayed to the operator, shakily, until his voice hardened and strengthened_, "Didn't get a good look at the plates, but we're following so-"_

_"There!" Dean cried out triumphantly, "The plate number is-"_

Then there was the sound of screeching wheels, twisting metal, sickening thumps of bodies tossed and grunts that corresponded to hits and hurts of the two men inside the car. This part had Dean staring Sam's way again, worriedly.

_"Sir?" _the 911 operator called out_, "Sir are you there? Sir? We're tracing your call and sending help, all right? Sir? Sir, are you-"_

He was breathless by the time Diamond cut off the recording.

"Dean?" Vaughn called to him.

"One more time," Dean said tersely. His head was pounding, and his heart was speeding up. He didn't notice that his right leg started shaking restlessly.

Diamond did as instructed, and again, Dean listened, listened with all his heart and tried to remember with all his might.

"Again," he said breathlessly, when the second go-around yielded nothing inside his head. Diamond looked at Vaughn, hesitating.

"Dean," John told his son as he glanced at Bradley worriedly, "Maybe you should-"

"Again," Dean insisted through grit teeth.

"Listen, Dean," Bradley cut in, "You can't push this, you'll only make yourself worse..."

"I got this, I swear," Dean implored shakily, "I feel like it's all on the tip of my tongue or something, like there's this glob resting on my mouth. It's driving me nuts. I got this. Again, please."

Diamond complied one more time, and after the recording ended and Dean opened his mouth to demand another run, John cut him off.

"Stand down now, Dean," he commanded darkly, "You're not helping anyone like this."

The statement crumpled Dean's already-desperate expression, and it angered Sam even as he knew that it was the only way to make Dean stop for his own good. Already his older brother was puffing out panting breaths, shaking, and the beeping heart monitor on the wall sounded like it was going to protest soon.

"We will be here anytime anything changes," Vaughn assured Dean earnestly, "Just get yourself better, all right, kid? It'll all come back, and we can get the bastard who's behind this."

The detectives shuffled to stand, and Dean looked all around him desperately.

"No, please," he begged, "I can do this, I can-" Spots were dancing in his vision, mixing in with the dark suits of the cops around the white room, drifting around. He couldn't get in a decent breath. He was just dragging in air, trembling, bunching the sheets on his sides with fisting hands. His father moved aside and made room for his doctor. Bradley removed the nasal canula feeding him oxygen, and hastily replaced it with a mask that had him coughing from the harsher-rushing air.

"No, no," Dean protested, as the head of his bed was lowered flat. He felt tears slip past his eyes and all his defenses, frustrated that no one was listening to him, that no one was letting him try, that no one believed he could do this, could save the other missing girl, could put a stop to the madman and his evil work-

He slipped into this dark void, the weariness of his body reaching hungrily, _all grabby hands_ out to his mind with their dark, scaly tentacles, claiming him, owning him.

TO BE CONTINUED... 'Til the next post!


	4. Chapter 4

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

First off, I would like to thank all those who read, favorite-d and especially all who reviewed the previous chapter of _Less Traveled By_, and all who did the same for my other current work in Supernatural, _Ever This day_ :) I truly appreciate your time, patience and insights :) As always, your c & c's are very much welcome and I look forwrad to hearing your thoughts and opinions on this story. It's very much a WIP and I keep getting stuck, unfortunately, so any time I hear from you is a jolt of inspiration (or a kick to move faster haha!). Without further ado:

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Less Traveled By

* * *

4: Down the Same Road

_1997_

* * *

_He'd always dreamed of the day the rifle would be placed in his hands, and his father telling him, _You can do it, Dean, I've taught you how, you know this. Go. _He remembered that day, fear blended in with pride blended in with sheer determination that churned in his gut. _I'll show him. I'll show him I can do this. I'll make him happy.

_John had wrapped Dean's small, slim fingers around the rifle, had squeezed warmly and reassuringly before letting go. Dean had nailed his targets like there was no tomorrow, and then looked up at his father expectantly. John Winchester looked like he was going to whoop, and that mouth of his was curling up before he caught himself, and then there was like a cloud that moved in over the sunlight in his eyes. He just nodded at Dean grimly and said, _Again.

_Dean shot, and again he hit the bullseye. _Again_, John commands and into the night they went, target after target after target. When they finally went back indoors – Sammy was with Pastor Jim on a field trip - they were both exhausted. Dean went to bed, and John... Dean found him drunk in the living room in the dim light of the dawn hours later._

Did I do anything wrong? _he asked his father._

No kid, you were great_, John assured him, before his face crumpled like Sammy's did when he was about to cry, and he turned away from his son. In the next breath, he said _Just go back to bed _like it was nothing._

I don't understand_, Dean said quietly. But then again he was just a kid. Maybe it was a grown-up thing...?_

I wish you'd have been god-awful, _John told him spitefully, acid just dripping at the words_, Did you have to be so good? It would have been a helluva good reason to keep you out of this if you mucked it up.

Keep me out of what? _Dean asked, and his father did not answer him for a long moment, so he said again, _Dad, keep me out of-

It doesn't matter, _John said, _It doesn't matter, Dean, just go back to bed.

_He'd been more involved in hunts after that. Dad had started calling him _soldier _after that. He always wondered what that night meant. When he got older he realized his father was trying to find a reason to sideline him from the hunt, from the job. But Dean had known for the longest time, as he waited for the responsibility and the honor that came with the hunt, that this was their _life_. He realized he probably understood that sooner than his father had... his father, who'd go after their mother's killer and say it would all be over after that. It's not going to be over. This is _life_._

_If there was any difference between resignation and understanding one's calling, he couldn't tell and didn't care. This made him a good soldier. Was it Tennyson, that poet? These things seldom resonated with him, but the idea stuck; something about no replies and no reasoning why, just to do and die. He remembered this because Sam was bitching about their life one random day that he usually bitched about their life and Dean told him about the poem. It was fresh in his head a few hours after class and for a second there, little bro actually looked impressed at Dean's grasp of literature before he said, Y_ou know how the rest of it goes, right? A third of the Light Brigade was either killed or wounded, Dean. You know what that means? Statistically, that's like, one of three people. _He looked at Dean pointedly, and it looked like he wanted to clarify that it meant _One of the three of us.

Of course I don't know the rest of it, I just read enough to pass class, _he had teased Sam, just to lighten the mood. Geez, kid was a real downer sometimes. Dean didn't let it ruin his perception of himself as a good soldier though, he was very possibly _the best_. He knew it, Sam knew it, his father's friends knew it, maybe his father knew it too. This meant he was unused to not being trusted to do a job right. He was unused to the sense of incompetence, helplessness, uselessness-_

Dean wakes up inexplicably _pissed_. He stirs, finds his father looking down at him worriedly.

"Dean, you back with me?" John asks, cautiously, "You with me, son?"

He was annoyed with his father and he couldn't remember why. Either way, he just said "No" and went back to sleep.

* * *

When it comes to a job, John reflected, Dean tended to be irrepressible. There was always a plan, there was always a way. Finding the other missing girl became the job. Nailing the bastard behind everything became the hunt.

After watching Dean stir awake on and off, in short increments and then longer and longer, in times when he remembered what he was in the hospital for and in times he had to be reminded, the moment he's lucid he comes up with an idea.

"I wanna drive down that same road," he declares, the first thing out his mouth that made sense in hours, "Maybe it'll bring something back."

John stared at his son for a long moment; the imploring green eyes, the irises just busted up, asymmetrical and wrong. But they held fire, they always did, and he had a feeling he would be doing his son more ill by denying this request. He remembered that he'd told the detectives his son would die trying to remember, and even though he knew this was coming, it didn't make things any easier.

"I wanna talk to your doc first," John told him warily.

* * *

It's a minor production, and Dean is growling and pissed as hell about it.

"I'll be out of the hospital for like, a half hour!" he protested when his doctor insisted he travel with the IV still hooked up, with a nurse, and with an ambulance behind them. Detective Vaughn would be doing the driving, he was relegated to the passenger seat, and the backseat was to be occupied by his father, the nurse, and Detective Diamond.

"You can barely sit up," Bradley pointed out, learning within a few days that treating Dean like he was about to shatter was not the best way of dealing with him, "I can practically guarantee you you're gonna upchuck all over the nice detective's car, maybe even earlier on when we wheel you to the parking lot. You're far from ready for this, Dean. Any other doctor's gonna just tie you to this bed or knock you over the head again, mark my word. I'm just covering my ass here, you can get me fired, if anything happens to you."

"I'll sign a waiver, whatever you want-" Dean argued.

"Hey Dean, can I come?" Sam piped in.

"You are both out of your-" Bradley began, before a frustrated Dean yelled at his brother.

"You're keeping your ass on that bed and I mean it," he told Sam, "You're barely-"

"What?" Sam asked him triumphantly, "I'm barely recovered? I just woke up? I'm still supposed to be in bed? What?"

Bradley was a fast learner in dealing with Dean, but Sam trumped him and anyone else on experience. Older brother glared at the younger one, but otherwise wordlessly complied with whatever the doctor demanded.

* * *

Detective Vaughn was determined to replicate that infamous drive as much as possible, right down to the time. This left them with a couple of hours to prepare, and Dean with some more time to rest. The lights were set low in his room, the mood of the place matching the drugs he knew he was under. Normally he would not have put up with them so much, but his father, Sam and Bradley were in collusion about somethings, and if whatever they gave him helped him do what he had to do later, then he was fine with that. For now... he was calm, and the pain that had been stabbing into his head whenever he was awake was just a distant hum.

His door creaked open, let some light from the corridor into his space. He winced at it, until the entrant closed it behind... her. There was a girl in his room, walking toward him and tugging along an IV pole in one hand, and a vase of flowers in the other. Her steps were quiet, padded by hospital-issue slippers. She had a loosely-tied terry robe over her hospital gown, and in places he spotted the tell-tale bulk of bandages. She was pale, bruised, walked like she was sore. She had straight, dark brown hair in a ponytail that went down along one shoulder. She was about his age, he determined when she stood over his bed, and he realized that he knew who she was. Usually he would see her with more make-up though, more light, more laughter, more of everything. They didn't share classes together, but she was easy on the eyes and he naturally saw her around school.

He licked his dry lips before speaking, "We go to the same school."

She lowered herself to the seat by his bed, nodded in the direction of Sam's empty one. "Where's your brother?"

"Who's askin'?" was his automatic response, because he wasn't quite sure who she was and why she was there.

"My name's Annie," she hesitated, "Dean... Is that all you remember me from? From school?"

He frowned at her, and that distant buzz of the pain in his head was clawing closer and closer to the surface.

"These are for you," she said, putting the vase on his nightstand, "There's plenty more out there, cards and teddies and stuff, from the kids in school, the teachers, the cops, even the mayor's office. But your dad isn't very big on receiving visitors or accepting gifts, and neither are the cops outside your door. Except for me, I guess. This one's from my mom, from our garden."

He glanced at the flowers. "They're nice, thanks."

"She'd give you an arm and a leg for saving my life," she told him, "Not that you remember any of that right now."

He stared at her face, and _nothing_ registered, nothing but her walking around school and laughing with her friends. She was a grade lower than him, but she belonged to this mixed-batch clique, the rich kids with the nice cars and the clothes you never saw twice. Her older gal pals have thrown him these flirty eyes in the middle of class, objectifying him because he was new and they were gorgeous and rich and tended to get whatever they wanted to play with. He didn't mind, but their boyfriends did. Two or three of Annie's jock buddies have tried to bully him, _try_ being the operative word until he set them straight about people messing with Dean Winchester.

"Sam's," he said, his mouth dry and willing to change the subject for now, "Sam's walking around, getting his sea legs back."

"I was told you're planning your own excursion," she said, "Driving down the same road you found me in."

"Yeah..."

"I just wanted to..." she paused, thinking, "I just wanted to go down here and thank you, for saving my life. You and your brother, you're really something else. You're heroes, everyone knows that. And I also wanted to tell you... I know you're still hurting, but... but thanks, you know. For trying so hard."

He felt his cheeks burn. He was used to gratitude, being a hunter. But this was different in a way that he couldn't fully understand. Being a hunter made him feel like he was above a situation, that he could be brave because he knew what was really going on in the dark, while other people didn't. When he received thanks in that capacity, he took it in and let it feed his heart, but he also took it with a grain of salt because saving people and hunting things was his _job _and his responsibility. Being thanked by Annie and her mother and the kids in school and the fricking _mayor_ though... it was different because he was being thanked as a kid who somehow managed something good, and something that was beyond the scope of his responsibility. The public nature of this whole thing was also making him uneasy; being thanked after a hunt, borrowing an alias and working in the dark was a whole lot of different from his current situation, and he wasn't sure how to handle it because he was shy in his own way.

"What if I still don't remember?" he asked her. The lowering of the guard surprised him, but it was an honest fear.

"I know you will," she said confidently. But her hand was more shy when she placed a palm over his, squeezing reassuringly. The affectionate support felt intimate and honest, deep and precocious, something neither of them fully understood yet because they were just teenagers. She sprang up to her feet nervously, saying, "You're gonna remember 'cos you need to, you look like one of those. I'm gonna go, you need to rest. Good luck, Dean."

"Thanks, Annie," he called out after her.

* * *

Bradley was wrong about him upchucking on his wheelchair on his way to Detective Vaughn's car. The massive orderly assigned to him had barely gotten him on the damn chair, his head was already spinning. Bradley's prediction had been ridiculously _optimistic _after all.

He settled in the seat, grit his teeth and set his jaws, set his elbows on the armrest and covered his eyes with his hands, shielding them from the corridor lights. He tried to control his breathing, _inoutinoutinout_... he was dizzy enough without hyperventilating after all. He could hear himself muttering some comforting Metallica as he was pushed forward. His head was going to fucking explode and they weren't even outside his room yet.

"You can do it, Dean," he heard his brother's quiet voice on the way out. Sam sounded weary from his earlier walk, voice thin and wavering, but Dean knew full well he had meant what he said. He concentrated on keeping himself from throwing up, or from letting the pain intimidate him into backing out. He did not bother wasting energy acknowledging Sam's parting encouragement; Sam knew he heard, and Sam would know it mattered.

Even with his eyes closed and his face covered by his hands, Dean could hear the commotion around him, let this paint a picture in his head. The orderly was pushing his wheelchair forward. He could hear the quiet shuffle of his father on his right, walking alongside him. He knew by the squeaking Crocs to his left that this must be the nurse assigned to him on this little field trip. In front of him were the snappy clicks of the fancy leather shoes of Detectives Vaughn and Diamond, leading the way.

"We're taking you through the back," Diamond said in a low voice, to no one in particular, "There are still reporters out front."

Dean cringed inwardly. His father wouldn't be happy about that at all, what with the Winchesters generally keeping to themselves about things.

They stopped by an open car door, and Dean breathed in the breezy evening air. It revived him a little, and he looked up as his father squatted in front of him.

"You sure you're up for this, Dean-o?" he asked quietly, "You barely made it through just now. No one's gonna say that you didn't try, you hear?"

"It can't wait," Dean said determinedly, gulping, "It can't."

"You remember what we talked about, right?" John asked him, "This gets too much, you pull the plug. And I'm telling you now, if you don't do it, I will."

"You got my back then," Dean said, giving him a wan smile, which John returned proudly, "So it's all good."

The nurse secured the IV while the burly orderly put Dean's arm over his beefy neck and hauled him up and then lowered him to the passenger seat. Dean huffed through it all, eyes closed tight.

"Good luck, kid," the orderly said, before backing off and making room for the nurse. She put a pillow behind his head, rigged the IV over the rearview mirror, and placed a paper bag in Dean's slack hands.

"What's this...?" he muttered, looking down at the airsickness bag. He actually found himself grinning sickly at the sight. The nurse just winked at him. She was pretty, she was worried, and in a few minutes she's gonna think he's a fucking _superhero_...

She slid in the backseat, sat between John and Detective Diamond while Vaughn took the wheel. The car lurched forward, and the dizziness hit Dean almost immediately at the sluggish movement.

He closed his eyes, kept swallowing because his mouth just started to water aggressively. His hands and feet were cold, but the back of his neck felt hot, and his lips were numb. He started to shake his leg, pressed his forehead against the cool glass window and tried to bury half his face in the pillow. He thought he was doing a decent job of keeping his discomfort under wraps, until he felt his father's hand clutching his shoulder tightly from behind him, massaging it a little.

"You're all right, Dean," John told him quietly, "You're all right."

He clung to the words, and the soothing touch of his father. He whimpered a little at the turns and the occasional pothole, but otherwise kept quiet. He had a deathgrip on the airsickness bag, assured himself with its presence.

"We're here, Dean," Vaughn eventually said, and Dean could hear the crisp ticking sound of the hazard lights turned on, as they pulled over to the shoulder of Daffy-Ashland Way.

Dean took a deep breath, opened his eyes slowly, and looked out the windshield. Cars passed them by dizzyingly, and his eyes crossed as he tried to follow them, before he decided it was a bad idea.

It was late afternoon, borderline nighttime. Everything looked dully purple-gray, like there were shades over his eyes. There was suddenly an ache in his heart, like it was smarting from some random hurt, something he couldn't remember, but depressed him profoundly.

_It takes more than ten minutes to get back to that dump_, he heard Sam's voice in his head, so real he looked to his right side because for a moment, he actually expected to see his geek-brother on the passenger seat beside him. The memory and why Sam would say that drifted away, wrenching him back to the present, making him gasp in surprise.

"Dean?" Vaughn prodded.

"Start driving," Dean told him tightly, and the detective complied wordlessly.

Dean stared at the road, imagined he was the one behind the wheel. He felt dizzy, unbalanced and cold, but the memories had shifted from feeling like words on the tip of his tongue – inaccessible but teasing – to all but streaming now, and he felt like something was just being wrenched open in his mind's eye.

_Get your nose out of the book, Sammy, I mean it_.

_Lemme alone! I'm so behind it's not funny, Dean, I gotta finish this._

_Would it hurt to wait ten minutes 'til we get home? It's fricking dark! Ruin your eyes, why don't you, see if I care._

_It takes more than ten minutes to get back to that dump_.

_Well at least you got a roof over your head._

He remembered putting on the radio, and it was something lame and poppy, picked up from local frequencies. He remembered being so annoyed with Sam and so worried about their financial situation that he barely even heard it. He had kept his eyes on the road, and that was when he saw it. The fingers, wiggling through the broken taillights.

He tried to freeze the picture in his head, tried to capture it like a photograph, look at the plates on the car. But life didn't quite work out that way, and he gasped in pain and frustration from the failed effort.

"Dean!" he heard his father yell from behind him, just as he heard the Sam of his memories call out his name and ask _What are you-_

_Grab my damn phone and call 911_.

_The hell is going on? Dean! What do I say?_

Dean gasped and shot forward, grabbing for the dashboard in front of him, grabbing at anything he could claw on. The past was dragging at him, and he was growing less and less sure of where he was.

_The white sedan in front of us a sec ago? One of the taillights was busted and I saw fucking fingers from the cracked hole, wiggling like there was someone inside the goddamn trunk trying to-_

_Oh god, _Sam had spat out, before telling the 911 operator, _I'm driving along Daffy-Ashland Way and I think there's someone trapped inside the trunk on the car in front of me... Dean! Car and plate?_

The Impala in his memory was weaving, but Vaughn was driving like a damned granny. The memory was escaping just as quickly as the white sedan, and he couldn't catch up.

"Drive faster," Dean told the detective, displeased that his voice had lowered to a barely audible whisper.

"Are you sure you can-"

"Drive faster!" Dean barked at him, and Vaughn floored the gas. The humming sound of the car, and the vibrations beneath his body brought Dean back to the past. The memories were so vivid that he could have been there all over again.

"White Ford sedan from late 80's," Dean growled now, as he had then.

Everyone in the car was quiet, and he felt weirdly enough like some fake psychic with people paying him not only for a read but also for the show.

"I think he caught a scent of us, 'cos he's moving around..." he murmured, seeing that white car in his head, shifting across lanes and going past other cars. He was getting frustrated, unable to catch up and see what he really wanted to see. He moaned in sheer, anxious frustration, pressed his palm against his aching – maybe _bursting? _head –

- and then suddenly he saw it.

Numbers and letters clear as day, just before the trunk popped open and the girl rolled to the street. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The girl was on the ground, and Dean recognized Annie.

He realized another thing: his headlights were right on that trunk,_ right on that damned trunk, _and there was no mistaking what he had seen and what he _hadn't_.

Once Annie jumped from the trunk of the white car, the damn thing was _empty_.

There was no one else inside with her.

There was no other girl, absolutely _no one else _inside.

Dean gasped back into the present, chest heaving. He was covered in a cold sweat, breathless, dizzy, shaking. He grabbed Vaughn's arm, barely managed to rattle out the plate numbers before curling over the airsickness bag and turning himself inside-out.

* * *

Vaughn pulled over to the side of the road, rubbed circles over Dean's trembling back as the kid lost his lunch into the bag. John and the nurse were already outside the car before it came to a complete stop, wrenching open the passenger's side door and sitting on their haunches, waiting for Dean to settle down. Diamond was already on his phone, babbling about the plate number Dean had reported seeing.

"We have a name and an address on that plate," Diamond reported to Vaughn after a quick exchange with their office.

Dean was hacking and heaving dryly now, but still curled around the bag. John tried to take it from him and lean him back to rest on the seat.

"No, dad..." he croaked, grip tightening.

"You're good, son," John told him quietly, and while he let go with some hesitation, he complied quietly as his father eased him to lean back on the chair.

"He's done in, officers," John told Vaughn and Diamond, looking Dean over worriedly. His son was trembling, and his eyes were set on John in a way that he hadn't seen in years; begging eyes, with all their weight set on John's face.

The ambulance that had been trailing the detective's car had pulled over behind them, and the nurse waved the paramedics over.

"We'll bring him back to the hospital in the ambulance," the nurse declared.

John eased Dean out of the car, held him by the elbow as he slumped against his father with his head hanging low. His eyes slipped close the moment he went horizontal on the stretcher. They rolled him into the back of the ambulance.

"He's a fine boy, John," Vaughn said, standing beside the worried father, "Just like you told us."

John gulped, nodded. "Keep us posted, detectives."

The three men shook hands, and then John jogged over to his son's side.

TO BE CONTINUED... I hope to see you at the next chapter. 'Til the next post!


	5. Chapter 5

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

First off, thanks to all who read, alert-ed, favorited and ESPECIALLY all who reviewed the last installment of _Less Traveled By_. More specific responses to certain querries and comments should be making their way into your respective inboxes in the next few hours and days, but I thought I'd get this new chapter out; I am trying to be very disciplined with regard to the timing because it's a complex case fic so I'd hate for you to forget the details by the time I update. In short: I'm working as fast as I can and I am trying my hardest not to make you wait too long, haha :) Your comments & constructive criticism (c & c's) certainly go a long way toward steering me in the right direction so MASSIVE THANKS for all those who take the time to let me know if I'm more or less on the right track :)

Anyway, as always, I look forward to your c&c's so please let me know what you think if you have time. Without further ado, Chapter 5 of _Less Traveled By_:

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Less Traveled By

5: A Job for Us

_1997_

* * *

"_We interrupt this program for breaking news."_

She was a pretty reporter, one of Sam's favorites from the ones covering the Annie Huntington case. She tended to ask intelligent questions, he thought, and the curly blond hair did her no harm either. She stood ramrod straight and poised in her sharp suit in a snappy studio, before the scene cut to a montage of Annie Huntington's yearbook picture and a couple other photographs, and stock footage of the exterior of their high school.

"_A couple of days ago, sixteen-year-old Annie Huntington was drugged and taken from outside her school by an unknown perpetrator, who stuffed her inside the trunk of his car with another girl, who is - for now - only known by her first name, "Linda." During the course of this torturous drive, Annie broke the taillights of the car and wiggled her fingers out the hole to alert drivers on the road that she was trapped inside the trunk. Brothers Sam and Dean Winchester-"_

Sam groaned inwardly as his and Dean's yearbook photos came on; these weren't ones from their current school and was a couple months, maybe a year old, but apparently, some overeager intern or network researcher was a sharp tool over there and managed to get hold of them. The Winchesters seldom stayed long enough anywhere to get their photos in the yearbooks, one of the few positives in their nomadic lives, in Sam's eye.

_"-spotted her fingers as they drove down Daffy-Ashland Way. They called 911 and went in pursuit of the vehicle. Their relentless effort to help the kidnapped teenager resulted in an accident that ultimately saved Annie Huntington but left both boys hurt, and the unknown perpetrator still at-large with Linda still in his clutches._

_"Just a little over an hour ago, testimony from the Winchester brothers led to the arrest of 28-year-old Marcus Tenet, who is the registered owner of the car that had been Annie Huntington's temporary prison."_

Tenet was a gangly, freckled guy who looked far younger than the claimed twenty-eight years. He had thick glasses and unruly, curly brown hair, and he looked shock-scared and pale as he was dragged between Detectives Vaughn and Diamond into the police station.

"_I didn't do nothin'!" he yelled at anyone who would listen, "I haven't seen that goddamn _goddamn _car in weeks! It ain't mine no more, I-!"_

_"The vehicle was not found in his home_," the reporter went on, _"And no trace of the missing Linda could be found in the premises at this time. We will bring you more information as they become available."_

Dean had been wheeled back to their room unconscious about an hour before the news broke, trailed by their weary-looking father. Sam looked away from the television screen and glanced at him now, and John Winchester didn't look triumphant or anything, he just looked really tired as he stared up at the TV.

"You okay dad?" he found himself asking.

John shook his head in disbelief, "The things you boys get into."

Sam sighed heavily, jutted his chin out at Dean's sleeping form, "When's he gonna wake up?"

"Couple of hours if we're lucky and he stays under to rest a little longer," John reported. His jaw tightened, looking down at his older son, "Humans, huh, Sammy?"

Sam pursed his lips, turned back to the news, "They're saying they couldn't find the other girl in Marcus' house. No body, no trace, nothing. They couldn't even find the car."

"They just apprehended him, Sam," John told him mildly, "They're working on it, and you can expect more information to keep trickling in during the next few hours, the next few days. This is just the start, Sammy, but it's the end of your part. You and Dean... you boys did good out there. I'd rather you boys didn't do anything at all, truth be told, but you did good out there. I'm proud of you."

Sam wished Dean was awake to hear all that. Praises from their father were few and far between. He played with a frayed end of his blanket, "Well there are... human monsters too, right? And it's not... it's not any less to be working on them instead of the ones we hunt, right?"

His father gave him a sidelong stare, trying to get a read of some sort out of him and apparently not getting anything because he just agreed. "It's not any less, no. But that's not our job."

Sam didn't mean anything other than what he said, so he just sat back, thinking about his brother and wishing he was already awake.

* * *

"Sam...?"

Sam groaned at the intrusive sound of his brother's voice breaking into the warm, comfortable clutches of a deep, restful sleep.

"Sam, you awake?"

Sam wasn't and they both knew it, but it was Dean waking Sam up for some need or other and at the same time trying to convey that he wasn't. He could be kind of complex like that sometimes...

"No," Sam growled at him, "What do you think?"

"Geez," the breathy, quiet voice murmured, "You're all prickly."

Sam sighed heavily and opened his eyes, saw the white ceilings and the white walls, and then shot up awake to a sitting position in realization, suddenly freeing himself from sleep and disorientation.

"Ow, crap!" he moaned, pressing a palm to his head and sinking back to bed; the doctors said he was mostly healed, but the vertigo was going to be a recurring problem for a few more days.

"Sam, you okay?" Dean asked, alarmed, also shifting to sit up.

"Stay still, damn it," Sam snapped at him, "Just... gimme a sec, all right?" he caught his breath, felt his older brother's worried eyes leveled unwavering on him, "I'm sorry, Dean, I was asleep and I forgot and... and I'm just happy you're awake now."

"Where's dad?" Dean asked.

"Probably stepped out for food or coffee or something," Sam wrinkled his nose, "I hope it was for a shower and a change of clothes."

Dean smiled a little at that, giving his eyes some light for the first time in days. "Got any news for me, squirt?"

"You ah..." Sam hesitated, "You know why we're here?"

"White car, taillights, fingers, blah blah blah," Dean snapped, "Stop testing, I'm fine, we're over the memory thing. News?"

"They got the guy who owns the car," Sam reported, "His name is Marcus Tenet. He's just twenty-eight years old. He doesn't have a criminal record or anything like a history of doing what he did with Annie and Linda, and he says he hasn't seen the car since he sold it a couple of weeks ago. The car wasn't in his house, and there's no trace of this Linda girl either."

"He sold the car?" Dean asked, frowning, "Then why's it still under his name?"

"I don't think it was very formal," Sam said with a shrug, "He said he needed the money and wasn't attached to the car so he put it up for sale and this guy – somebody named Duane Viner - just plucked it up a couple of weeks ago and said he'd take care of the paperwork. I guess he didn't. The cops started looking at existing records on 'Duane Viner' and didn't get anything. So either it's a burner name or... well, you know how Occam's Razor goes; the simplest explanation is the likely explanation, and maybe Marcus Tenet was just making him up to try and get out of this. He probably just got rid of the car." Sam bit at his lip, "And... and the other girl too, I... I guess..."

"About that," Dean hesitated, licking his lips in thought, "I uh... I need to pick at this brain of yours, Sammy."

"Yeah...?"

Dean's eyes clouded again, and Sam felt deprived of that light. The glazed loneliness made Dean look so, so tired.

"When we went down that road," he said softly, the blankets twisting in his curling fingers, "I remembered everything. What you said, what I said, what I saw..."

"You did good, man," Sam assured him quickly, feeling out of his depth with an older brother who seemed so suddenly and uncharacteristically hesitant.

"When the trunk popped open," Dean said, shaking his head slightly like he was seeing the scene in his mind again, "And Annie was on the road, the trunk behind her... I couldn't be wrong about it, Sammy, the headlights were right on it, lighting it up and... and I guess what I'm saying is... from what I saw, there wasn't anyone else inside the trunk."

Sam's eyes widened, "What do you mean there-"

"There wasn't anyone else inside!" Dean barked at him in frustration, but not at Sam, not really, and his younger brother understood it completely, "Once Annie spilled out on the road, there wasn't anyone else left in there. I think she was alone in the trunk, Sam."

Sam bit his lower lip in thought, "So... so what? Maybe Annie was dreaming up another girl in there with the drugs she was on, or maybe her mind conjured up like, an imaginary person there as a survival mechanism... or... or are you saying this has turned into a job for _us_?"

Us like the Winchesters as hunters. _Us_. As opposed to 'them' which was everyone else.

"Maybe this Linda was a previous victim from god knows when," Dean said, "Haunting the trunk."

"Annie was saying she felt really cold in there," Sam said. The thought made his skin crawl, "And you know what else Annie said? When Linda was talking to her, Linda told her that she couldn't remember anything aside from stepping out her house in the morning. But there were no missing girls named Linda reported the morning that Annie was kidnapped. The cops just said maybe she lost track of time in there, but if Linda's a ghost... it could have been some other morning days, weeks, months or even years ago."

"So you said this Marcus Tenet guy has no priors?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam replied, "But it could also mean that Linda was a victim from a long time ago and he just never got caught."

Dean bit his lip in thought, "B-but what if I'm wrong, Sam, what if I remembered wrong?"

"You got the plates and everything else right, didn't you?" Sam pointed out.

"But what if I'm wrong, Sam?" Dean asked again, "What if the coppers stop looking for this Linda chick based on what I tell them, and I'm wrong? I don't want to tell them that I didn't see anyone, 'cos I don't want them to stop looking. Because I can be wrong, I mean, this head is categorically you know... fucked up right now. If they stop looking and she's really out there..."

"I understand that," Sam told him after a moment of thought, "But if you don't tell them exactly what you know to be the truth, what if they are looking in all the wrong places? You tell them what you know, Dean, and then let them sort out what's what."

Dean pursed his lips in thought, "I don't know, Sam... d'you think... maybe what we can do is like, research. Look up if Annie has a history of psych issues and shit, and check missing Linda's from other years and other places who can possibly be the ghost in the trunk. Only when we're absolutely sure Annie wasn't in the trunk with an actual person, _then_ I can tell the cops what I didn't see so they can stop looking or they can look somewhere else."

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean in calculation. It was actually a fair plan. The cops would keep looking just in case there really was a girl who had been with Annie, and once the Winchesters know for sure that it was just a ghost, then they can tell the cops what Dean saw. "Me and dad, _we'll_ research. You take it easy and rest."

"But it's just sitting around and-"

"And reading," Sam finished for him, "Your vision is so screwed right now Dean, I can see your eyes are all wonky from here. Just get better, and we'll figure this out."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but he could barely even glare at his brother or lift his head without feeling nauseous, so he just leaned back, groaned and closed his eyes. "Fine," he spat out, "But you're still a bossy bitch."

* * *

They told their father about Dean not seeing anyone inside the trunk with Annie after he returned from a coffee run. He had looked at Dean and Sam pensively, but generally received the information without doubt, which was a huge reassurance for Dean. Sam even noted how his older brother's stiff, lowered cautious shoulders had relaxed after their father said, "Okay. We can work with that."

Dean exhaled in relief, nodded before wincing in pain and regretting the movement. He was tiring again, and anyway it was roundabouts of the middle of the night. Their father told them to go back to sleep and said that he was going to be back in the morning. This irked Sam a little.

"Where are you going?" he asked his father pointedly.

"Out," John snapped at him, not appreciating the tone, "I'll be back."

"Where are you going, dad?" Sam asked again, this time more careful, more mild, adding the last word to show his father he understood his place here, "I thought you said you were going to stick around...?"

"You're safe with the guard outside for now," John assured him, "I'll start looking into this Linda situation, especially since this could very well be our job now. And then I'll go check us out of that motel we were staying in before I left-"

"You really don't have to," Dean said, a little nervously.

"We're losing money and no one's staying there," John pointed out.

"I checked us out of that motel days ago and moved me and Sammy somewhere else," Dean said, squirming a little, "It's cheaper so it's a bit further out. Unless I missed more days than I think I did in here, the sublet on the studio's good for a week yet. You don't have to worry about that, dad."

"Where's this place?" John asked, "I guess I can use a shower, settle some of the stuff from the truck down, get you some of your own things-"

"I'd rather you didn't go there yet," Dean said quickly, becoming more alert, "It'll be a mess. I mean it's an okay place generally but I wasn't expecting you back so soon and I haven't really had any chance to cl-"

"I'm sure it's fine, Dean," his father assured him, "You boys are good here on your own for a couple hours?"

"Like it matters," Sam said under his breath.

John turned to his younger son angrily, "Sam, I got no idea what had crawled its way up your-"

"You know where my clothes are?" Dean cut him off, voice suddenly over-loud.

"What...?" their father's face was scrunched up, and he looked like he was trying to figure out if he was dealing with a mutiny and if he should start shooting people before it got out of hand.

"The keys, dad," Dean clarified, "The keys to the studio are in the jacket I was wearing in the accident."

It distracted his father enough such that John had left Sam's muttering alone. He took his sons' clothes from a clear bag the hospital personnel had put in one of the closets in the room. They were grimy and bloodied, which was a heck of a way to distract him again, and he murmured something about also doing the laundry before leaving his sons alone for the night.

The moment the door closed behind him, Dean glanced at his younger brother curiously, "You all right?"

"Yeah," Sam shrugged.

"Did I miss anything while I was out?"

"No," Sam mumbled, noncommittally.

"What were you saying," Dean pressed, "About dad saying he was gonna stick around?"

"He told me nothing could get to us without getting through him first," Sam finally replied, "I told him, sure, _when _he's around, which he almost never is. Like now. See? The moment he gets a whiff of this being a job and not just some normal accident he leaves us behind. But I guess I hit a sore spot."

Dean groaned, "Sam, you think? Leave the guy alone, man, he's gotta do what he's gotta do."

"Yeah," Sam sighed, "I guess. Whatever."

* * *

Later that night, after securing documents from the usual sources (_and / or the usual suspects_), John drove to where his children have been living for the last few days to to sit down and get more work done and maybe some rest afterwards.

The closer he got to the apartment, though, the deeper his heart sank into his stomach. When he finally parked in front of the dated structure, his heart could have already gone six feet down below his feet.

'Dingy' was a generous term for the dilapidated building and the area around it. The building stood alone for the most part, what with being outside the city and the city not having been very cosmopolitan on its own to begin with. There were lonely street lamps too far apart lining an empty, pockmarked road. It looked like a dying street.

John got off the car, and for a moment he let himself have the luxury of being irritated with Dean. _Why would he move them to a dump like this, why would he shut his trap if they needed the money, why would he endanger himself and his kid brother by moving somewhere this shady-_

John walked into the building and walked up to the sixth floor studio that his sons have been calling home in his absence. The lights in the public spaces flickered, and they had far less to do with the presence of spirits and more to do with simple neglect. The carpet was stained and ratty, thinned out by decades of treading feet.

His anger morphed into one against himself, especially after he noticed that while the place was falling apart, the residents seemed to be comprised of old people and simple families borderline of destitute. Dean would not be moving into anywhere that dangerous people lived, where Sam could be in danger. He just needed a roof for him and his brother.

John let himself inside the tiny apartment, and it was actually fairly neat; he supposed Dean was just discouraging him from coming in to see the place in general. John knew that if the living quarters were this shabby, there was probably nothing in the refrigerator and the pantry in terms of food and general provisions but he looked anyway, just to be perverse, just to punish himself a little. He wanted to remember this place, let it sink its teeth in.

No wonder Sam was pissed at him, he thought miserably. He sank on the sofa, rubbed his hands over his face and ached for Mary.

* * *

John did not get any work done in the dingy studio, and just decided to bring all the raw material he had with him to the hospital. He'd also done a quick laundry stop and brought his kids fresh clothes for when they checked out. When he walked into their room, Sam was eating breakfast and Dean's bed was empty.

"Where's your brother?" John asked. It couldn't have been anything, but the sight of the bed made his heart speed up a little.

"He had to go for a scan," Sam said as he chewed, "Doctor said there's no problem, it's just routine and they want to make sure he's on track. He also said I could get out of here today."

John gaged the youngest Winchester's mood a little, and Sam seems to have cooled off from the previous night's animosity.

"That's good, Sammy," John said, "I got some work done. You up for helping your old man out?"

"Sure," Sam said. He seemed more chipper today, likely due to the prospect of being released from the hospital and the good prognosis on his older brother.

"I'll get a better idea of your timelines after I talk to your doc," John told him as he handed some sheafs of paper to Sam, "Then I can talk to your teachers and get you your homework or whatever else you missed."

"I am getting kinda bored," Sam conceded, "What am I looking at?"

"A hell of a lot of missing Linda's; I got missing persons records from the time the car was out in the market to the day Annie was kidnapped," John told him, "In there you've got Marcus Tenet's bio, and Annie Huntington's too. There's also a couple notes in there on the effects of the drug she was given; maybe it was a hallucinogenic. Either way, see if anything pops out, I got other stuff with me too." John settled down on the cot and started reading.

"Nothing wrong with Annie," Sam murmured, minutes into looking at his stack of papers. He was scanning the sheets and organizing them into separate piles (for some logic that was as of now unknown to John); this made John smile a little. Sam on the hunt was something to behold too, after all.

"And the drugs found in her system have displayed hallucinogenic effects on some people," Sam concluded, "Nothing statistically significant. If Annie is one of those types of people though... why conjure up someone like 'Linda?' Usually, hallucinations have some basis in reality, right?"

"Yeah," John conceded, "Figures in real life that push into the hallucination. In this case, this 'Linda' girl was someone Annie was helping, or someone who was keeping her focused on surviving. We should be looking at Annie's bio if there's a 'Linda' who was a comforting or strengthening presence in her life."

"None that I could see," Sam said, looking at his father seriously, "So... you think Annie was really in there with a ghost, don't you dad?"

"Seems that way," John grunted, as he looked through his own papers.

Sam put aside one pile, neatly. "Well, I think so."

He went on to other things. "Marcus Tenet got the car when he was in high school," Sam said, "He got it brand new, and has had it ever since. That should narrow things down; at least we wouldn't have to look at previous owners' bios or something."

"This is an excellent start, kiddo," John told him, as he leafed through the documents. He paused, as a particularly striking piece caught his attention, "Well I'll be damned."

"What?" Sam asked him, as his eyes rove through the information, "Dad, what?"

It was at that time that the door to the room opened and Doctor Bradley brought an exhausted Dean back. He assured the family that he should be able to release the older teen in a couple of days. Sam, however, was free to leave in the next few hours. When the doctor left, Sam – hot on the trail of the case – pressed his father for the information again.

"Dad, what did you find?"

Dean was slumped in bed, but perked at the smell of the hunt, "You found something?"

"Annie's not a psycho who made 'Linda' up in her head," Sam summarized in a breath, "The drugs couldn't have been responsible either, so the likelihood is we're really dealing with a ghost. The car had always belonged to Marcus Tenet. We were looking at missing persons records from the time the car went on the market to a few days ago, when dad found something."

Both boys looked at their father expectantly.

John separated the piece of paper he had found from the rest of the documentation and held it up, "One of Marcus Tenet's classmates went missing when he was in high school in the late 80's: a girl named Linda Carin. No one ever knew what had happened to her."

* * *

Dean didn't like Sam out of his sight for extended periods of time, so he was glowering all through the morning as his father and brother worked, and it was why he was glaring at the nurse who disconnected Sam from his IVs and at their father for signing the discharge forms later that afternoon.

"You'll be following him in a couple of days, Dean," their father told him knowingly, not even looking up from the papers he was scanning through.

"But I'm fine now!" Dean retorted.

John peered up at him from the forms in censure.

"You've been at this all day," John told him flatly, "Drop it."

Dean bit his tongue, but kept up the petulance up by pouting and crossing his arms over his chest. The silence lasted all of three seconds.

"How sure are Vaughn and Diamond that this Marcus Tenet sicko has no accomplices?" he asked, "Sam will be safer here with me."

"He'll be with _me_," John said, "You got a problem with that?"

Dean frowned, but said, "No sir."

"Tenet's profile fits the loner mode," John explained more patiently, "So no, they don't think he has any accomplices. The cops are even pulling the guard at your door."

"You're just gonna miss me," Sam told Dean cheekily. He was bouncing a little, feeling better and eager to be released from the hospital.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean growled.

"Stop pouting, Dean," John told him as he handed the forms to the nurse, "You look like you're eight. Come to think of it... you were probably doing this whenever Sam had to go somewhere you couldn't follow way back then too."

Dean ignored that and chose a different tack, "But I'll be so bored here, or they're gonna saddle me with a really annoying roommate or something."

"Deal with it," John told him lightly, "We'll be by early tomorrow, Dean." His eyes darkened slightly, as it had after Sam and Dean told him about what Dean remembered of the car accident and about the non-existent Linda earlier, "I'll probably have somethings to update you on by then too. Things should move much faster now."

Dean pressed his lips together. "Just... just be careful out there, dad."

_Out there _was anywhere he wasn't in and could not follow.

"Don't break out, Dean," John said, making him smile a little.

Sam got up from his bed, hopped experimentally from foot to foot. He still looked pale in Dean's eye, but he was steady on his feet. His eyes were glassy but bright, determined.

"Sammy: behave."

Sam waved the advice away like it was just a puff of smoke. He walked over to Dean's side, "You gonna be okay alone here?"

"I already told you I wasn't."

Sam's dimples winked at him, but he insisted, "Seriously, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean assured him, "See you tomorrow, bitch."

* * *

A few hours after Sam and his dad left, Annie Huntington knocked on his door before she let herself inside. She still looked bruised, but she was in her own clothes and flanked by her parents.

"Hey, Dean," she said hesitantly, before she came into some resolution that was quiet and known only to herself, and she shot forward and gave him a bear hug.

"Woah!" he said, and caught aback by the force and openness of her affection, he patted her back hesitantly, "We should probably have dinner first or something, sugar."

She pulled back, her face beet-red. "My parents are here, you idiot!"

"It was a joke," he said, chagrined, as he looked past her to her folks, "Hello Mr. and Mrs. Huntington. I knew you were there. It was a joke."

"Hello, Dean," the mother greeted him, before Annie's dad moved past her and embraced Dean even more affectionately than his daughter had.

The hug pushed the air out of Dean's lungs in a surprised "Oof!" and made the world spin a little, but he was shyly pleased about receiving the open appreciation.

"Try not to kill him, Jed," Margie admonished her husband, "He's all skin and bones and he's still hurt."

"He can hack it, Margie," Jed said confidently, "Dean's a hero."

This made Dean's cheeks feel flushed and hot. He cleared his throat and turned to Annie, "You're checking out, huh? Everyone's being set free but me."

"Aw, we just missed Sam!" Jed exclaimed, noticing the empty bed beside Dean's and looking genuinely saddened.

"You're looking much better, Dean," Margie assured him, "From the last time we saw you. It will only be upwards from here. Oh! And once you are out and feeling better, I have a bit of fete in mind in you and your brother's honor, and as a celebration for the safe return of our daughter."

_A what?_ His eyes crossed in confusion.

"It will be nice and intimate," Margie went on, "Some of you and Annie's friends, a couple of Annie's aunts and uncles-"

"Gramma will be there," Jed added, "She saw your picture on TV, and said you and your brother are very fine-looking boys."

"Your grandma," Dean said to Annie numbly, trying to catch up, "That's nice."

"No," Jed corrected him, "_My_ gramma."

"Oh," Dean said, wondering how in the world someone can live that long and if he should bring a shotgun and salt rounds along.

"The senator will be in town soon so scheduling it around that time will be nice so he can drop by," Jed added, "The mayor, certainly, will make an appearance. A couple of our friends from the community and local industry, some friends from the press... it will be fun, Dean, and good for a young man such as yourself, especially at this point when you're beginning to apply for college. It will be an excellent time to network."

Dean's brows furrowed, "I wasn't really planning on going to college, sir."

Margie blinked at him, "Oh but Dean, you must, a young man with your talents and force of personality." She patted his leg knowingly, "At any rate, we will see about changing your mind by then. Your father will certainly approve."

_Dad would be as enthusiastic about sending me to college as he is about paying for me to get a cheap suit to go to this goddamn party_, Dean thought miserably, but that was another day's problem. Today, he was getting a headache from all this optimistic enthusiasm. _Happy people. Bleh_.

"We'll let you rest for now," Annie told him, and motioned for someone from just outside his door. It was a man in a sharp suit bringing along a fancy basket of goodies to his night table. The package was all done up in fancy wrapping, and it was so large Dean's eyes widened.

"Thank you, Daniel," Mrs. Huntington said to the man as he exited before turning to Dean, "Just a small 'thank you' Dean. We weren't sure what you'd like."

"So you brought me the supermarket?" he asked her with an appreciative smirk as his eyes roved over the treats. It was food enough to tide the Winchesters over for a week, at least, maybe two if he stretched it the way he's learned how...

"There's some books and magazines in there too," Annie rambled, "Comics, what have you. I don't think though that your doctor would be too happy about you reading yet. Maybe I should pull those out... but we thought you'd like that better than get-well teddy bears. Anyway like I said, we weren't really sure-"

"It looks great, Annie," he assured her, and turning to her parents said sincerely, "Thank you."

"No, Dean," Jed said, eyes watering a little, and it was disconcerting on the burly man, "Thank _you_."

Annie and Margie left him with a wave. Jed lingered a little, and when he shook Dean's hand, he had left a sheet of paper in there before making a hasty exit.

Dean glanced at it: a small envelope, and inside were two personal checks. One was made payable to _Mr. Samuel Winchester_ for a mind-boggling _Five thousand dollars_, and the other was made out to _Mr. Dean Winchester_ for the same amount.

"Mr Huntington-!" he called out, but they were long gone.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Thanks for reading and 'til the next post!


	6. Chapter 6

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

I would like to thank all those who read, alert-ed and favorite-d my fic, and especially all who reviewed the last chapter of _Less Traveled By. _As always, expect more comprehensive responses to specific queries in the coming days and hours. In the meantime, here's a fairly long-winded new chapter with some more sort-of answers :)

As always, I look forward to reading your c & c's; please let me know what you think of the chapter if you have time. I worry about this story sometimes, and I'll be addressing why in my usual post-fic afterword (which I'm already writing, so you can expect that this fic is nearing completion), so your thoughts are invaluable :) Anyway, without further ado, Chapter 6 of _Less Traveled By_:

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Less Traveled By

6: Checks and Balances

_1997_

* * *

The five thousand dollar check was burning a hole in Dean's proverbial pocket, and thinking about it was giving him a headache. There was something inside him that was keeping the information from his father, and he was struggling with understanding what it was.

If the money had been given to him just a few days earlier, he wouldn't have found it so distracting. But the case was unfolding, and the urgency has diminished for him since his family collectively decided that Linda was a years-old ghost and not some poor girl trapped in a trunk somewhere waiting for a rescue. It was tragic, yes, but there was little that could be done about it now, and the more years he spent on the job the better and better he understood things like that.

As promised, his younger brother came back to visit him early in the morning. Waking up was still generally unkind to his healing head, but opening his eyes to the sight of Sam was almost always worth the trouble.

"Hey, Dean," the youngest Winchester greeted him with a small smile. Sam was sitting on a chair next to Dean's bed, their faces and gazes level to each other.

"How..." he cleared his throat, "How long have you been sitting there?"

"A little over an hour, I think," Sam replied, shrugging, "Not long."

"Creepy," Dean grunted as he shifted in bed, attempting to sit up until Sam put a hand on his arm to stop him, "Hang on, lemme do this."

Dean closed his eyes tightly as Sam raised the head of the bed up at an angle, so that he was sitting more than lying down. He kept them closed as he let his balance and his stomach settle, and opened them only when he felt Sam's weight on his bed.

"You good?" Sam asked, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, looking at his brother in rapt attention.

"Yeah," Dean winced, looking around the room, "Dad? News?"

"Looking in on a lead," Sam replied, "This is the theory we're working on: Marcus Tenet – then in high school – nabbed and killed a classmate, Linda Carin. He got away scott-free, but the impulse comes again years later when he tries to kidnap Annie Huntington. He stuffs Annie in the trunk, where Annie meets the ghost of Linda Carin, who suffered the same thing about ten years ago. Makes sense?"

"In our world," Dean snorted rubbing at his eyes, slowly becoming more and more alert, "Makes _sense_? That is _so _the wrong way to put it, Sammy..."

"So dad and I are thinking," Sam went on, ignoring the quip, "Linda is tied to the car somehow, right? Maybe it's still got some of her DNA, or maybe it's just the sheer trauma of the experience that's keeping her ghost in there. I'm hoping for the former. 'Cos Dean, if the cops find the car and get the traces of her DNA... she could actually have justice. Marcus Tenet will be put away not only for assaulting and attempting to kidnap Annie Huntington, he will be put away for the murder of Linda Carin too. Maybe that will put her to rest."

"They still haven't found the car though, huh?" Dean asked.

"Dad's looking in on that right now," Sam said, "Just earlier today, several hikers reported car tracks leading into the water at the north end of Lake Belkin, a couple of hours away. I guess Marcus Tenet tried to get rid of the evidence by pushing the sedan into the water."

"That son-of-a-bitch is sick," Dean said distastefully, "I guess he's not talking at all, is he?"

"Nope," Sam said, "He insists he had nothing to do with the kidnapping of Annie Huntington, and that he doesn't know anything about a Linda who was stuffed in the trunk with her. He's sticking to the story that he sold the car a couple of weeks ago to this Duane Viner guy, and that Viner must be the one responsible. He's even volunteered for a lie detector test, harping on that he's as much a victim as everyone else. He gave a description of Duane Viner to the cops and they have their eyes open for him but no luck finding him yet, so they're onto Tenet like superglue."

"Vaughn and Diamond are convinced he's their guy?" Dean asked.

"They've got no one else," Sam shrugged, "And he's got no alibi; like dad said, he does seem like the loner-type. He has been for a long time, from what I've seen on his bio. Marcus Tenet came from a pretty well-off family. He lived under the radar in high school both in terms of grade and popularity, he was a normal guy. He got older and slid off the wagon though, got into the usual: gambling, drinking... It's at least believable that he'd sold his old car to get some money, but in the absence of a better lead... it's one of those cases that would just have to head for court. From our end, though... dad and I are pretty convinced. It's hard not to be, when he may have a history of past behavior, from that classmate of his who went missing."

"Are the cops looking in on that at all?" Dean asked, "Are they beginning to link Marcus Tenet to Linda Carin's disappearance in the 80s?"

"There's been talk, sure," Sam replied, "But not a lot, not with Annie insisting Linda was picked up that same morning and that they were talking in the trunk. Last I heard, they're thinking of bringing Annie in to talk to Tenet, to try and plead with the good side of him to give up the information and tell everyone where Linda is."

"And how's that goin'?" Dean asked.

"The detectives are trying to weigh if doing that will make Tenet talk," Sam answered, "Or if he'd turn defensive and shut up more. But Annie's got spunk, she's scared but she's willing to give it a shot."

Dean winced a little in thought, "You know once this entire thing unravels it's gonna be real weird for Annie. If Tenet talks and the cops find out that Linda has been dead for years... what will that mean for Annie, after she insisted someone was inside the trunk with her? People will think she's nuts."

"They'll just say she got PTSD or something," Sam shrugged, "Or that maybe she read about the disappearance from years ago and it seeped into her subconscious. They'll say it's the drugs too, maybe. There's always an excuse, Dean. When you start talking 'ghost,' that's when you're the crazy dude - ironically."

"I guess," Dean sighed, "So when should I tell the cops that I didn't really see anyone in that trunk?"

"You might not have to if you don't want to," Sam said, "I mean the cops are already digging up that car and looking high and low for a body... they'll find whatever they'll find, I guess."

Dean's eyes lit up with an idea, "Hey, you think we can try and get in on that interrogation action if they decide to push through with it? I hate it when we're working on a case and it feels... far, you know?"

"I think the Huntingtons will give you half the family fortune if you asked, Dean," Sam said.

"Speaking of fortune," Dean said, and glanced at the door of the room nervously before leaning over the side of his bed to the nighttable and grabbing the envelope Jed Huntington had given him. He tossed it Sam's way.

"What's this?" Sam asked as his long fingers unfolded the envelope and he peered inside. His eyes widened comically, and he looked up at Dean in excitement.

"It's from Annie's dad," Dean explained, "He uh... he shoved it in m'hands and made a quick exit. I dunno what to do with it."

"We're rich, Dean!"

Dean actually chuckled at that, "Sure, squirt. We never have to work again."

"What did dad say?" Sam asked.

Dean pressed his lips together. Generally speaking, he didn't display dissent against his father to Sam. It was unproductive, and he didn't think it was his place. But there was something about this damn money, and he was trying to put a handle on why he'd been keeping his mouth shut about it.

Sam's eyes widened even more in realization. He looked genuinely surprised at the rebellion, "You haven't told him."

Dean scratched his cheek, glanced at the door again, "I mean I'm gonna... maybe. But... I don't know. I was uh... I was thinking of giving it back."

"But we need the money," Sam argued, "You know it like I do."

"You can keep yers if you want-"

"But I'll look like a jerk," Sam pointed out, "Come on, Dean... they can afford it, we need it, and we deserve it. What are you on?"

"You'll look like a jerk," Dean scoffed, and Sam just rolled his eyes at his older brother. But Dean understood; no matter which way you turned the world over, shook it and looked at it, his kid brother was still really just thirteen years old and yeah, he'd care about that. So sue him.

"I wanna give it back," Dean said quietly, "I wanna give it back 'cos... 'cos I think it's too much. I mean, we'd have done it anyway."

"You'd keep the money if they gave you less, like four grand?" Sam asked.

"No."

"At three...?"

"No."

"At two-"

"Sam, shut up," Dean growled at him, "I don't know, all right, it doesn't have to make sense, I just don't want their damn money. I don't care that we need it, I just don't like feeling that I'm backed into a corner with my life so I just gotta take it. I haven't told dad 'cos... 'cos..."

_Why hasn't he told dad...?_

Sam looked at him expectantly, brow arching as if he was asking, _Well?_

"The way I see it," Dean took a deep breath, "It can only go down two ways: one, the moment he knows, he'll spend it all on ammo. He's long past that luxury, you know, that he can say no to this. He'll blow it on ammo 'cos he's got to, it's for the job. I don't mind it usually, but I don't have to like it all the time... like now. I wanna give the damn money back, just 'cos I still can, all right?"

"But it doesn't even have to be for ammo, Dean," Sam implored him, "We need it just to sleep somewhere decent and to eat and get clothes. Simple stuff, _normal _stuff."

"That's the other thing," Dean said quietly, "I open my mouth and tell dad we gotta keep the money 'cos we need 'to sleep somewhere decent and to eat,' and he's gonna feel like the scum of the earth."

Sam just looked at him pensively.

"Then again," Dean sighed after a moment of thought, "Maybe it's my banged-up head dicking me around. I mean look at me, saying 'no' to free money."

"Well _I'm_ not saying 'no'," Sam pointed out.

"You ah..." Dean asked, "You telling dad about your check? 'Cos it is _yours_, you know that, right? It doesn't have to go into the pooled income of the borderline-destitute Winchesters."

Sam pressed his lips together, and it was his turn to glance warily at the door, as if he was afraid that their father was going to walk in any moment now, "I kinda wanna start saving up my own money. For emergencies and stuff."

"_Now_ you look like a jerk," Dean teased him.

"And..." Sam hesitated, "And college, you know, if I decide to go. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need stuff."

"College, huh?" Dean asked, brows rising, "Really?"

"I'm good in school so I think I got a shot," Sam shrugged, "And so do you," he added pointedly.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waved the issue away, "You can quit it with the motivational speech already, Mr. Higher Learning, and just focus on solving us this job."

* * *

It was an ancient question for a hunter when it came to dealing with restless spirits from the victims of violent crimes: do you give them peace or do you bring them justice? Do you salt and burn a body or piece of DNA that could be vital evidence, or do you bring in the cops and let the law deal with the crime?

John mulled on this as he watched the scene investigators work on the extraction of the white car from Lake Belkin.

There were no hard and fast rules, and there was a heck of a lot of discretion involved. Once in awhile he'd get a call from a hunting buddy on advice about such things, and sometimes he called others. Today, it was Bobby Singer on the other end of the phone call.

"I'd leave it alone, John," the more-seasoned hunter told him.

"Yeah?"

"Well the perp will be behind bars a long time for the charges on Annie Huntington alone so he won't be a goddamn menace to anyone anymore," Bobby replied, "And what's there to salt and burn when you don't know where he stashed the body of Linda Carin anyway? You can always try and snuff out the car, but it's evidence now, and you don't wanna get your grubby hands on wrecking that especially since it's linked to an active case. Linda Carin's ghost will just have to stay on in that trunk... she doesn't really harm nobody anyway. It's tragic for her but what can you do? Maybe one day someone will find something in the car or in Marcus Tenet's place that can give her justice. It's all you can do, Johnny. 'Sides, why borrow trouble? Your boys are hurting, you take care of your own first."

"I was thinking along the same lines," John commented with a wince, "But when it comes to things like this, I sure 'preciate hearing it from someone else too."

"So uh..." Bobby hesitated, "I'm gonna be in the area on a job in a couple of days. I was thinkin' of swinging by, make sure that guy I hooked you up with on fixing up Dean's car doesn't rip you off. Is that all right?"

"I don't know," John huffed, "You lying about actually having _a _job here?"

"I can always make it true," Bobby laughed gruffly, "'Sides... so I wanna see for my own eyes that the runts are all right, what's it to you?"

"They're usually happy to see you, Singer," John told him, "God knows why. I guess I just gotta live with it."

"You know it."

John thanked the other hunter and hung up the phone.

As far as he was concerned, this hunt was _done_.

* * *

The decision of ending the hunt was strangely... nerve-wracking.

John Winchester seldom ended hunts with resignation and trust that someone else – this time the cops, he supposed – would take over. But he was a logical man too, had been in the game long enough to know where things started and where things ended in terms of what he was capable of doing.

Used to being perpetually busy, though, he decided to turn to more productive things. He moved his family out of the dingy sublet and back into the motel nearer to the boys' school. He also called up Vaughn and Diamond to let them know that Sam had been released from the hospital and told them where he and the boys would be staying. He also verified with them that they were sure the boys were no longer in any danger as witnesses to this whole debacle.

That settled, he called up Doctor Bradley and asked about when he thought Dean would be released. The doctor also informed him that his eldest child was well enough to start doing light schoolwork.

That bit of information led him to making a phone call to the boys' school principal, who eagerly gave him an immediate appointment, or any appointment at his leisure. He decided to go see the man that very afternoon.

"Principal Strauss," John greeted the administrator in his office. The last time they saw each other was when John enrolled his children in the school a couple of months ago.

"Mr. Winchester," Strauss said with a huge smile as he led John to sit in a couch in his office, and not by the forbidding-looking desk. He sat just an arm away from John and leaned forward earnestly.

"It's good to see you. And how are Dean and Samuel?" he asked.

"They're good," John said, taken a little bit aback by the other man's eagerness and warmth. Strauss had certainly been stony that first meeting, John remembered, set apart behind his cavernous desk as Sam, Dean and John answered his prying questions before he admitted them to the school.

"Healing," John went on, "They'll be ready to head on back in no time. Which is why I'm here."

"Their teachers are well-aware of the situation," Strauss assured John, "And have already prepared packets for the boys at my behest. These contain notes on what the children have missed so far, and what else they may miss in the coming days. These also hold reading assignments and homework, and contact details of each of their instructors in case they require clarification or particular assistance. I guarantee you that your boys will have no problems returning. Not only are we ready to accommodate them, they are whip-smart to begin with. It has not escaped my attention that they adjusted quite well and quickly since joining us; I am certain catching up will be of no consequence to them."

Strauss handed John two long, thick brown envelopes labeled for each of his sons. "Mr. and Mrs. Huntington were here on a similar capacity earlier today," he told John, "For their daughter Annie. And so we thought it best to prepare the same thing for your sons in the event of your arrival."

"Comprehensive," John commented, impressed. He doubted Dean would be, though. The damn envelopes were heavy, and looked like a hell of a lot of work.

"It is our pleasure," Strauss said, "And we are especially grateful; you know the Huntingtons are wonderful benefactors to the school, and we are all relieved at the safety of Annie and your own children. It is the least we can do for any of you for your help."

"I'm worried about one more thing," John said, "There's reporters camped out at the hospital, and I'm thinking you might get the same problem here when Annie and the boys go back to school."

"The security issues will be handled appropriately, Mr. Winchester," Strauss answered, "Your boys will be well-looked after when they return. We will also align with the school nurse to be aware of what medication they may still be taking for the injuries and what-not if you like. You just have to call me - " A calling card appeared out of nowhere like goddamned magic - "and inform me of their precise schedule of return."

"Sounds good to me," John said, taking the card and pocketing it, "Thank you."

* * *

The thing with hospitals, Dean reflected glumly, is that after the fear and the shock and the hurt that brought you in there is eased by the relief of eventual healing, there's a lot of boredom between then and freedom.

He was asleep most of the time but unquestionably getting better, and he knew he was near to being released when his father brought in his homework.

"Seriously?" Dean asked John when he dropped a massive envelope on his swiveling dining table and dropped another one by Sam's lap, "Dad, come on. I have a head injury."

"Now you do," John said sarcastically. Sam was already eagerly opening up his package, "Get to reading, soldier, you have a lot of school to catch up on."

"But dad," Dean complained, "If I'm well enough to read, I might as well be working on the case-"

"There's nothing to be done on it now," John told him with finality. Sam's head shot up at the announcement.

"What?"

"There's no body to salt and burn 'cos no one knows where that kid dumped Linda Carin," John replied, "And we can't interrogate Marcus Tenet to find out 'cos he's in police custody. We can't raid his house either because they're all over it, and they have a hell of a lot more resources for a comprehensive search than we do. We cannot salt and burn a body we cannot find, boys. And we sure as hell ain't torching a car that's in evidence linked to an active case. The hunt will have to sit, for now. 'Sides, Linda isn't harming anybody being tethered to that trunk."

"But dad," Sam protested, "_Linda _is a victim too. When we send these ghosts off, it's not just for the people they're haunting, right? The job's also about sending them to the light... or whatever."

"The job's about what to do with what you got, Sam," John explained, "Marcus Tenet won't be hurting anyone anymore, Annie Huntington is safe, Linda Carin's ghost is harmless in that trunk and the cops are looking for her body. You do what you can, son, and then you move on and help someone else. You can't get caught up in the things you can do nothing about. This hunt is done, Sam. What you boys gotta do now is heal up and catch on with all your schoolwork."

Dean exchanged a look with his brother before saying, "What if Marcus Tenet talks, and spills the beans on where the body's at?"

"Then that is her justice," John said, "If she still needs salting or burning later, we can accommodate. But other than that, we're out of this one, and that's final. Dean: no more bull. Get that started."

"But what's it all for anyway?" Dean mumbled, miserably opening up his envelope, "It's not like I'm gonna go to college or anything like that."

Sam's head shot up again at the rebellious tone.

John frowned, looked at him flatly, "Dean."

Dean sighed, "Yes, sir."

He did as he was told.

* * *

Of all things right and holy, he was done with homework and catching up with school in no time at all. The headache that has been nagging him since he woke up in the hospital days ago was laying low, quiet from the meds he was on, so even pain wasn't a distraction nor was it a motivation to force himself to sleep. Besides, he'd been mostly asleep for days so he felt restless, just eager to get out of there. He was shifting and shifting, and his bed squeaked irritably. He growled under his breath.

"I wanna get outta here," he said.

"I can tell," his father told him mildly, before getting back to reading the daily.

The three Winchesters were cooped in the room, reading, doing homework, watching daytime television, talking and taking naps at random intervals all throughout the day. Dean was not assigned a new roommate, so Sam was on his belly on the bed parallel to Dean's, going over his own schoolwork.

"I think I need some fresh air," he said a couple of hours in, getting up from his borrowed bed and springing to his feet. Sam bounced a little, and Dean glowered at him in envy.

"Why don't you take your brother," John suggested to him mildly, "He's simmering like a black hole over there."

"I can go out?" Dean asked hopefully.

"On a wheelchair you can-"

Dean groaned, "Dad-"

"Dean come on let it go, we'll get some air," Sam said, not waiting for a response. He was already out the door, and Dean could hear him talking animatedly to a nurse.

"Why is he so impatient?" Dean sighed at his father, "You staying here?"

"Everyone keeps askin' me that," John said, "Yes. Yes, Dean, I'm staying, I'm not going anywhere until-"

"I meant here, _in this room_," Dean clarified, frowning at him a little. John just blinked at him, so he filled in the quiet and asked, "You want us to bring you back anything? A soda, coffee, anything?"

"I'm good, Dean," John told him, "Thanks."

* * *

Sam wheeled his brother out along the hospital corridor, humming a little to himself as he pushed at the wheelchair. The humming was as melodically vague as always when it came to Sam's musical prowess, but he was in a good mood. Dean, on the other hand, was hunched on the chair miserably, swathed in a robe and tethered by his IV.

"I really coulda just walked," he mumbled.

"But I'm a good driver," Sam told him lightly. He took Dean down the corridor and into the elevator. The brothers stopped at the 6th floor, where the cafeteria and an open courtyard was. The brothers bought ice cream and settled outdoors, watching the sun set. They tried to pay for their food, but the cashier knew who they were and wouldn't take their money. Other than that, though, they were glanced at but essentially left alone.

"We shoulda grabbed some of that pie too then," Dean said pensively as he gamely took down a generous spoonful of his chocolate sundae, "I can get used to this."

"To what?" Sam asked, as he munched on a vanilla cone.

"Free stuff," Dean wiggled his eyebrows at his little brother.

"I'm glad you're in a better mood," Sam said.

"I guess I just needed to get out of that room for a little bit," Dean took a deep breath, "This was an awesome idea, Sammy. All this air is helping me think. Our end of the hunt is done. We saved a hot girl from the clutches of an evil perv, said evil perv is behind bars, dad's sticking around watching awful daytime shows with us, we get free ice cream... I guess this is a good day's work, man."

Sam grinned at him a little, "Now we just gotta break you out of here."

"True that," Dean affirmed, "Say... how far do you think you and I can get on this baby before they realize we're out?" he asked Sam, patting at the wheels of the wheelchair.

"Not very far," Sam laughed. It was a good sound, Dean thought, and he almost regretted having to join in the laugh and obscure some of it.

"You're right," Sam said after a moment, "It's a good day."

* * *

After Sam and John left, Annie Huntington came in to visit him with a few minutes left to spare of the regulated hours.

"You just can't stay away, can you?" he teased her, before she raised her head and he checked himself; her eyes were watery and red-rimmed, and she was shaking. He made an effort to sit up, push himself to his elbows. The flimsy hospital clothes made him feel very exposed, so he pulled the blanket up over his chest too.

"Hey," he asked her quietly, "Annie, what's going on with you?"

"It's been days since I was kidnapped," Annie began shakily, sitting on the chair next to Dean's bed, "And the guy, you know, the guy who _took _me... they found his car and looked at his house and the places around it and anything else he owns and they just... they can't find Linda. No one's telling me so, but I think they think she's already lying around dead somewhere."

Dean bit his lip at this remark, and just let her talk.

"He's not talking," she went on, "He insists he doesn't know me, has no reason to take me. He insists he didn't kidnap me and Linda and shoved us both in the trunk. He's just sticking to his story: he sold the car to someone, and that guy must be the one behind everything."

The tears that have been welling in her eyes spilled over now, "The detectives brought me in to talk to him, to try and plead with him to just tell us where the other girl is. But he kept saying he didn't know me, he wouldn't take me, he didn't shove two girls in the trunk of his car... I... I failed her, didn't I?"

Dean took a deep breath and blew it out in a long exhale. _God_, where should he start? The girl was obviously killing herself with guilt that by all rights did not belong to her. They were both years too late in helping Linda. They were years and years too late, and the only good thing they could do now is to make sure Marcus Tenet was put away for the rest of his life. Putting Linda Carin's soul to rest was a different job for a different day, and likely even falling to a different person.

"You're still hurt," she said, spitefully wiping at her eyes, "And I can't believe I'm bothering you with this but I can't... I can't talk to anyone else who would understand just how... how responsible I feel for her, you know? Do you know what I mean?"

"Annie..." Dean hesitated, wanting to knock her out of her misery by telling her the truth but at the same time, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would think he was crazy.

"This isn't your fault," he grated out of his tight throat, "Sick people do sick things, and we're just caught in the landslide. You did what you could for Linda; you fought like a maniac in that trunk, and you told the police what you knew right away so that they could look for her. No one can ask you for anything more."

"I couldn't get him to talk," she said, "I couldn't... I begged him to just tell us where she was but he wouldn't... I failed her. I can still hear her crying... I'll always hear her crying..."

The statement sent warning bells ringing in Dean's head. "You hear her crying like... like in a memory, or like... like she's just... around?"

Her face twisted disdainfully, "I don't understand..."

He was asking her if she was haunted by her memories of a ghost or if a ghost had actually latched on to her, that was the question. But how the hell was he supposed to put the words together to-

"Oh to hell with it," Dean muttered to himself. His head was hurting again, and there was never really any delicate way to wrench open someone's eyes into the dark world of supernatural things. In many ways, Annie Huntington's wake-up call was kinder than most; when the supernatural made its way into Dean's life, for instance, it had robbed him of his mother.

_She'll just have to fricking take it_, Dean resolved.

He pushed himself up to sit, and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. The world swam around him as he struggled up, but he was determined to get across the room.

"Dean-" her tears stopped momentarily in her confusion about what it was he was trying to do, "Dean, what are you-"

Dean hung onto his IV pole and used it to keep himself up as he walked carefully - heavy-footed, unsteady but unquestionably determined – to the closet where Sam and his father had left a couple of the documents from the now-abandoned hunt.

"I can get it if you just tell me-" she stammered. He ignored her, so she just rushed over to help him. She placed a hand underneath his free elbow and helped him move forward.

He growled in dismay at the vertigo, but kept on walking and then raked through the papers in the closet until he found what he wanted. He shoved it in her hands, and then sank like a rock on the nearest seat he could find.

"What am I looking at?" she asked him.

"About ten years ago," Dean closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair as he tried to look for some balance, not to mention look for the right damned words, "Marcus Tenet was in high school when one of his classmates went missing. No one ever found a body, and no one ever found out what had become of her. Her boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, mother's boyfriends, her teachers, her friends, people who worked near her house, neighbors... the search was exhaustive, and the cops tried their best checking out everyone connected to her, but they couldn't get anything."

"Linda Carin," Annie whispered out the name from the paper, "Her name... Linda."

"Linda Carin was leaving her house for school one morning in the late 80s," Dean told her wearily, opening one eye, "And was never seen again."

Her brows furrowed, "What are you saying? That... that Marcus took her ten years ago? Then how'd she end up in the trunk with me? What are you saying, Dean?"

"Annie..." Dean licked at his lips nervously, "You're not gonna believe me but I'm gonna answer your question in a sec. But there are a couple things I gotta ask you first. One – do you think I'd deliberately say shit just to hurt you?"

"Of course not, I-"

"Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No-"

"Can you trust me?" he asked her.

She held her breath a little, before admitting, "I don't really know you."

"Fair enough," he muttered, before making his voice louder, "Two out of three ain't so bad. Tell you what. When I took that drive down Daffy-Ashland trying to remember the things I saw... I remembered not just the plate number of Marcus Tenet's car, I also remembered what I _didn't_ see. Annie... my headlights were right on you and right on that trunk. I couldn't have missed anything. When you jumped out of the trunk, it was empty. There wasn't anyone else in there."

"What are you-"

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked her, straightforwardly.

Her expression filled with fear at the possibility of the truth of his statement, and then darkened in rage before she closed her eyes and composed herself. When she opened them again, they were steely-cold.

"I wasn't gonna say anything," Dean told her earnestly, "And I know you can't believe me now, but I'm telling you this because you have to know: there's nothing you could have done. I think Marcus killed her a long time ago. By the time you were put in the trunk with her... you were years too late. She wasn't in there anymore, Annie, not all of her, just... a part got left behind, and that was the only part you met. I'm sorry."

She stepped away from him abruptly, and let go of the paper she was holding as if it burned her hand. She was shaking, and he realized she was deathly angry at him.

"Don't you be mad at me," he implored her, "But you're killing yourself with this guilt at the very least, and at worst... I gotta know if she's haunting you now or if it's just your memories of her. If it's the latter, I can help you-"

"I'm not..." she cut him off but hesitated after he stopped talking, "I can't disrespect you, not after what you and your brother have done for me. And I'm t-trying t-to skip being pissed about this nonsense and just... just get to the part where I should be worried because... because y-you're still hurt and... and what I guess what I'm saying is: you should literally get your head examined."

She left the room in a huff.

"Fair enough," Dean said again, as he looked at his bed blearily, and with far too much longing than was healthy. It looked so damn far, and he was so damn tired.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

... In the coming few chapters, the boys go back to school as heroes and feel the love - just before everything goes crazy again (typically!). I hope you stick around for the second installment of angst and h/c to come, haha... and note: one of the core questions _Less Traveled By_ aims to answer is why Dean didn't finish high school so we'll be getting to that. 'Til the next post!


	7. Chapter 7

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hey guys!**

First off, MASSIVE THANKS to all who reviewed the last installment of _Less Traveled By _(LTB). I haven't had a chance to respond individually to reviews as your queries and comments deserve for which I apologize, but I might be going away again in a couple of weeks and have just been hard at work trying to juggle RL and churn out the chapters to finish the story and post the whole fic before that time so I wouldn't keep people waiting for very long. Rest assured this sick little tale of mine is almost done and should be posted in its entirety before the year ends if the muses cooperate :) As always, your encouragement and c & c's are food and fuel, so if you can spare them, much appreciated :) If not, thanks for sharing your time by reading anyway; heck, I know life can be busy and overwhelming sometimes :) That said, without further ado, Chapter 7 of LTB:

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Less Traveled By

7: Taxonomy

_1997_

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Sam hid his face underneath a grimy, oversized cap his father had slapped over his head when the two Winchesters stepped out of their truck to go to a supermarket for a supply run. He had growled at his father in annoyance but kept it on, not really wanting to make a spectacle of his still-bruised face.

The rationale behind his father's actions, however, became clearer once they made their way inside. John, never quite one to care about his boys' physical appearance outside of threatening to shave Sam's hair off if he let the damn fringe get in the way of a good aim, had been protecting Sam from people's recognition; a couple of tabloids by the registers had dated high school photos of Sam and Dean prominently on their busy covers. Sam grimaced at them all before disdainfully turning away. Payback's a bitch, _oh yes_, and they were maybe just now paying for all those awful high school yearbooks he and Dean had managed to dodge. In a weird way, it was kind of karmic for their father too; he'd been trying to keep his kids under wraps for years, after all, and now their faces were all over the place.

John grabbed a large shopping cart, started pushing it with a vengeance. He went – almost viciously in Sam's eye, down the nearest corridor he could find that wasn't highly-populated. Sam trailed behind his father's slouched back, started making conversation.

"I was watching this documentary on TV," he told his half-listening father, "About prehistoric gender roles and how they may have shaped the shopping habits of men and women in the modern age."

His father was craning his neck looking at signs, dodging women and mothers and kid,s trying not to run people over with his cart.

"Men, it was theorized," Sam went on, "Tended to pursue game, so they had to be single-minded and purposeful. Women, on the other hand, were pickers of fruit and vegetables, so they had to have an eagle-eye out. Women have had to go around, look at a lot of stuff, examine them. Hence, men shopping are now more like hunters and women shoppers are more like gatherers."

"I'm hunting for some goddamn milk and bread," John told him tersely, getting annoyed by the bright bustle around him. In stark white light, their father looked like a black hole you can get lost in.

Sam sighed, "Dairy and basics are almost always at the back, dad. Dean told me it's because businesses want people to pass by the other stuff so that they'd buy more." Weirdly enough, Sam realized to himself with some surprise, Dean was more of a gatherer in the supermarket, always looking for the cheapest thing with the largest quantities. _Who's the girl now_...?

John led the way and snatched a gallon of milk, two dozen eggs and a loaf of white bread, grabbed some peanut butter, jam, fruit, canned meatloaf, instant mac n' cheese, cereal... he grabbed industrial sizes of what Dean usually stocked in the family cupboards, except with greater abandon. The sacks of salt, of course, dwarfed everything.

"What am I forgetting?" John asked Sam; it was Dean who usually did the shopping.

"Cooking oil," Sam told his father, adding wryly, "And you're forgetting to look at the price of everything."

His father ignored the quip, but Sam noticed he became more conscientious afterwards, had even started discarding and replacing a couple of things. The dairy was no longer organic, the brands you'd see on TV ads he switched with generic. As they spent twice the time Dean and Sam usually would in the supermarket as his father re-did many of his original shopping picks, Sam remembered something else he'd seen on TV a few days ago. He played with keeping it to himself for a hot minute, but sometimes,_sometimes_ it was just in him to goad his father a little, push him in certain directions and toward seeing certain things.

"I was watching the news the other day," Sam narrated, "And there was this debate between two guys running for the coming elections. One of them - the incumbent - was doing really really well, until one of the audience members asked him how much milk and eggs and bread cost, you know, like in a standard market basket? It's a way to gage if a politician is aware of the realities on the ground. Boy, he was way off the mark. I really don't think he's gonna win now."

John actually paused, and looked at him pointedly but with no real heat, "You saying I won't get re-elected, here, Sammy?"

_I get it already_, Sam felt was the underlying message, _Drop this_.

"I'm just saying," Sam shrugged, but his lips quirked a little in a smile, trying to disarm his father a little, "At least you're not the only one who doesn't know this stuff."

John's eyes lightened, and he surprised Sam when he laughed. The sound was low, rumbling, like a subtle shaking of the earth, loosening, readjusting, remolding itself.

When the two Winchesters finally got to the register, John had ditched and downgraded many things, but didn't go cheap on Dean's M&M's.

* * *

"You good over there?" John Winchester asked his eldest son, tone flat but sideways glance worried. They were two minutes away from the hospital after checking Dean out, and Dean knew his father had no qualms whatsoever about turning the truck back around and shoving him inside again if needed. He pressed his lips together, not wanting to upchuck in the car, and consequently getting shoved back in the hospital.

"Dean?" Sam pressed from beside him. The three of them were squeezed into the truck, which did not have a backseat. The Impala, he was told, was getting her pretty back in an auto shop.

"I'm fine," Dean assured them gruffly. He pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself. He felt cold, a little shaky, but he was glad as hell to be out. He shifted around, found a comfortable spot, and noticed that they were following a different route home.

"Dad moved us back into the motel near school," Sam informed him, and it surprised him a little that his younger brother had been watching and noting his most minute expressions, "So you wouldn't need to drive so much. We can just walk over."

"Nerves can't handle me back so soon behind the wheel, huh, old man?" Dean teased his father wanly.

"When two fingers stop looking like four," John snorted at him, "Come see me."

"Speaking of complex mathematical equations," Dean said wryly, "When are we going back to school anyway?"

"_I'm_ good tomorrow actually," Sam said.

The statement made Dean antsy, "I don't know, man."

"I've been out of the hospital for days," Sam pointed out.

"That's not the only thing I'm worried about," Dean said, turning his disapproval his father's way, "Is it safe? Did you run this by Vaughn and Diamond?"

"They know, Dean," John said, patiently, "It's fine. I told you, this Marcus Tenet is one of those loner types so no accomplices."

"And they just had that bond hearing for him too," Sam piped in, "Bail's set at a million dollars, Dean, and he can't afford it so he isn't going anywhere."

"Your brother's also got the all-clear from the doctors," John added, "Light activity is okay, and he's barred from gym class until he gets another all-clear in the next few weeks. But if it makes you feel better, the school nurse has Sam's records and some handy medication for his injuries in case they flare up, and the school is upping security for a couple of days."

Dean snorted, "Upping security, my a-"

"Dean-"

"Then I'm coming with," Dean resolved, "If Sam can go, so can I."

"You're dreaming," John told him determinedly, "And what makes you think this is a negotiation?"

Dean sighed, and all three Winchesters fell quiet for a few minutes before Dean broke it by asking, faux-casually, "Say dad... you going to work tomorrow?"

John's lips actually tightened to a smile, "No, you don't get to go with him behind my back, Dean-o. Nice try."

"It was an awful try, actually," Sam commented mildly.

"Shut up, squirt," Dean retorted, voice still thin from the nausea of the drive, "And here I am, risking my personal health wanting to look after you."

They drove on, and as they turned toward the motel, Dean's eyes widened like saucers and his lips curved into a massive grin when he saw his car – gleaming and back in perfect form - parked there just waiting for him.

"Oh baby we are _back_," he breathed, wrenching his eyes away momentarily from the glorious sight of her and turning to Sam and his father. Sam was beaming like an idiot (_as if he had anything to do with it_), and his father's eyes were shining even if they were focused on the road.

They pulled over next to her, and Dean noticed that the familiar sight of a snickering Bobby Singer was sitting on the hood of his car.

"Ha, ha!" Dean exclaimed delightedly as he pushed the truck door open and braced himself against it to stand. The older hunter – grizzlied and trailed by dust like always – walked on over and shook the teenager's hand heartily.

"How you doin', boy?" Bobby asked, "I heard you were just sitting around vegetating somewhere."

"I can still run marathons around you, old man."

"Not today," Bobby pointed out, "You're looking kinda green there, son."

"They just weaned him off the IV meds and switched him to the oral stuff so he's still adjusting," Sam explained, appearing beside his brother in front of Bobby. Their father had given the other hunter a cool wave before grabbing Dean's bags from the car and moving them into the motel room.

"You still hurting?" Bobby asked Dean, brows furrowing.

"I'm fine," Dean replied at the exact same time that Sam said, "He's still lying."

The older hunter just laughed, and made a show of swatting Dean's back in good humor. None of the three of them missed the fact that the touch stayed there though, as Bobby ushered Dean forward into the room carefully. Dean just suffered the assistance with a sigh.

* * *

If there was one thing that could keep Sam from going to school, it was Dean being ill or hurt. He stood hesitating by the motel room door the next morning, showered and dressed and backpack slung over one shoulder as he frowned at his sleeping older brother.

"Usually all this moving around in the morning would be waking him up," he told his father worriedly "All he ate for dinner were chocolates, he went to bed early, and he's barely moved since."

"He's fine Sam," John told his younger son, "Just let him readjust to being out. You went right to sleeping too when I brought you home."

The youngest Winchester looked unconvinced, but he heard a sharp rap at the door, signaling the arrival of Bobby Singer, who had stayed the night next door and volunteered to walk him to school today.

"I'm comin, Bobby!" Sam yelled, re-adjusting his pack and giving his father a casual wave. He looked at Dean expectantly, hoping the yelling would rouse him. It was to no avail so he just sighed and said, "I'll see you later dad. You'll pull me out of class, right, if - if anything happens that I should know about?"

"You're brother's gonna be fine, Sam," John assured him, "Good luck getting back out there. Just focus on school."

Sam gave his father a small smile, before pulling the door open. Bobby Singer stood there looking acerbic, like a date kept waiting.

"Took you long enough," he told Sam gruffly, "Done with your make-up, princess?"

"Yeah well," Sam said, taking no offense as he shut the door behind him, "Who asked you to bring me, Uncle Bobby? School's like... a couple steps away."

The two hunters started walking side by side together, "Well you can't blame your old man for wanting to make sure you're safe, what with all this crap going down in the area and all. 'Sides... he let you walk on over there on your own? And he'd have to deal with your invalid brother – who's got nothing better to do - ragging on his ear all day."

"He can be a nag," Sam agreed solemnly, "You grabbing me later too, on the way home?"

"Well apparently, I ain't welcome."

Sam suppressed a grin, "You know you are."

"Sure kid," Bobby said, "What time are you off?"

"Usually I have Latin club after class," Sam said, "But I think I'll skip that today; I wanna get home earlier to see how Dean's doing, and... and I was thinking... I was thinking if you'd come with me to the bank."

Bobby's brows rose, "What would you need a bank for?"

"I wanna open up a savings account," Sam answered, "I've come to some money, you see."

"And may I ask where from?" Bobby asked, not wanting to be an accomplice to something that would get John Winchester's beefy hands around his neck anytime soon.

"The Huntingtons gave me and Dean reward money," Sam answered, "You won't tell dad, will you? He'll just... he'll blow it on ammo and stuff like that, and... and me and Dean, we need it too. For emergencies and stuff, when he leaves us for a long time... and even... even for fun, useless things, what's wrong with that?"

He turned an eagle-eyed gaze up at the older hunter, as if he was waiting to be judged.

"It's in _my _name-" Sam went on defensively, before Bobby cut him off.

"Listen, Sam," Bobby began, "It's not place to tell you what to do with your money, and it sure as hell is not my place to tell you and your daddy how to deal with each other. Now I'm thinking the only reason I've been brought into this is 'cos you need an adult to open that account with you, is that right?"

Sam nodded enthusiastically.

"Then that's the end of that," Bobby said, "This is between you and me. The rest you and John figure out. I ain't saying a word."

"Thanks," Sam beamed at him, "I'm off by 3."

They walked on quietly, and the closer they came to the school, the thicker the car and foot traffic became. It escaped neither of their observant notices that people kept looking their way.

"I wish Dean were here," Sam said quietly, suddenly unsure of his decision to go back to school sooner.

"Don't you sweat all this, Sam," Bobby encouraged him, "You just do what you gotta do and get the day done with. It'll be easier after this."

Bobby and Sam stopped by stairs leading up to the large main entrance of the school. There were a couple reporters milling about, and Sam took a deep breath as he steeled himself to go inside.

"I can walk you all the way in-" Bobby offered.

"No," Sam said with a shake of his head, "We'll be old news soon, I just have to get through this day, like you said."

Bobby mussed the kid's hair affectionately, which irritated Sam into some distraction.

"Bobby!" he complained.

"It was 'Uncle' when you were asking me a favor," the older man pointed out, and nodded in the direction of the school entrance, "Get your ass in there, Samuel Winchester, I'll see you at 3."

* * *

When Sam got inside the main corridor of the school, he had to blink to get rid of the after-images of camera flashes that had blinded him on the way in. As was promised to his father by the principal, the school did up the security enough to keep the reporters from getting inside. He knew even before going in though that they wouldn't be his only problem.

As a professional new kid, he was used to people staring at him, weighing him with their eyes, looking him up and down. He let people's gazes wash down his back, like water. Their gazes hit you but it goes away until the next freak-of-the-week hits town. Or he lets his older brother deflect the attention away from him: Dean with the oily gazes, smart mouth and the slick hair, Dean with the hard-to-miss leather jacket, either basking in the attention or consciously protecting Sam from it (_he was never quite sure_).

So he expected some attention from this most recent debacle of theirs, sure. What he was less prepared for though, was not so much attention _per se_, but actual contact with people. It wasn't just people staring at him, it was about making connections, communication, people wanting to talk with him.

"Hey, Sam."

He glanced at the junior girl – a cheerleader named Jennifer who's had the locker next to his since he moved here but who had never spoken to him – and then glanced behind him just to make sure he was the subject of her attention.

"Hey..." he greeted her uncertainly, and his fingers actually fumbled on the lock before he could open his locker.

"I'm glad you're back," she told him, nodding at the bruises still on his face, "Do those hurt?"

"Not so much now," he told her as he drew his books out, left some stuff in, and then shut the clanging metal door. They stood in front of each other, and she was a head taller than him. Which gave him an unparalleled view of her most magnificent assets. He gulped nervously. She was blond too, looked a little bit like that reporter he was currently fascinated with.

"I know they look bad," he stammered, "But you know... not permanent. Which is good."

"It's a bruise, Sam," she laughed, and the sound made a home of his ears, melodic and rich, "I should hope it isn't. I get those all the time, when we have to workout for cheerleading." She pulled her skirt up a little, and it would have been fantastic (and he thinks she might have meant for it to be too), except what she showed was a black-green-purple-pink bruise half as large as his face.

He blanched, "Woah. Eww."

"Hang on a sec," she told him, because he was already turning away to go to class. She grabbed a tube of painkilling lotion from her locker, "In case you need it."

"Oh but I couldn't-"

"I got more, don't worry," she assured him as she shut her own locker, "Welcome back, Sam. Tell your brother get well soon too."

He watched her walk away, thinking, _Weird_.

* * *

The Lunchroom was a representation of the taxonomy of high school cliques. It was almost down to a science, how one can note the classifications of students based on where they were seated. This was the time and the place that Sam hated the most about going to school as a new kid, because new kids belonged nowhere.

Layouts tended to differ from place to place so there were no hard and fast rules, but the general principles held: if a spot had high visibility and good lighting, for instance, it belonged to the cool, rich kids. The closer to the food, the better for the jocks which meant the further away from the food, the further away from the jocks for the tamer kids who tended to be intimidated or bullied. Corners were good for musicians with all their instruments. Walls were good for the techies who needed plugs for their toys.

Sam's seat of choice was somewhere negligible in the middle of the room in the midst of many people who slid under the radar. Dean's seat of choice was wherever the flavor-of-the-month sat, who in the history of the brothers going to high school together, have spanned all corners of the lunch room at one time or another, depending on who he was dating. He wondered if Dean ever thought about finding girlfriends in every school they went to as a survival mechanism; at least he always knew where to sit. Then again, maybe he just really thoughtlessly liked girls too. Strategy and libido were interchangeable sometimes apparently.

The lunchlady wouldn't take Sam's money despite his insistence, and then he just mumbled a 'thank you' and went away, head hanging low and feeling embarrassed, especially since the line had built up behind him. He took his tray and looked out at the lunchroom crowd, finding a free table in the mass of obscure seats in the center of the room that he usually preferred. He opened his milk carton, tore at the plastic packaging of his utensils. He was preparing to dig into his cafeteria-grade lasagna _of unknown origin_, when someone settled in to sit across from him.

"Hey Sam."

It was Annie Huntington, looking a little pale and wan, but as neat and made-up as always. She had an uncertain smile on her face, as if she was unsure of her welcome, but her eyes were warm.

"I didn't know you'd be back today," he told her over a forkful of food. She stated picking on her salad.

"Being at home was driving me crazy," she said. She bit her lip in thought, as if the word 'crazy' naturally conjured up the memory of someone they both knew, "How's Dean doing?" _Speaking of crazy_.

"We checked him out of the hospital yesterday," Sam said, "He gets tired a lot and he still gets these headaches, but he's going to be fine. He'll be back soon too."

"Has he..." she hesitated, looking around nervously, "Has he been telling you about... about some nutty stuff going around on this case?"

Sam nearly choked on his food, "Nutty stuff?"

"I visited him the other night," Annie went on nervously, "And... and he didn't look so good, and he was t-talking about... about g-ghosts. So I guess I was wondering... is he okay now?"

Sam's jaw dropped, but they didn't get to speak about anything else that was related to the hunt because someone joined their table. It was a senior girl – the most recent homecoming queen if Sam heard and remembered right – who squealed and embraced Annie and welcomed her back before settling herself down and eating with them.

"Hey Sam," she greeted him brightly.

She wouldn't be the first one. Annie's clique slowly ate their way into Sam and Annie's space, abandoning their usual prime lunch spots and sitting at their table and at the tables that surrounded theirs, displacing other people, disrupting the order of things. They all greeted Sam with the same warmth and admiration, spoke with him, made inquiries on his health and that of his brother's. It was not natural, but it was warming.

Now if only Annie hadn't thrown in that bombshell out there, that his older brother had actually opened that big mouth of his and told her about the things in the dark.

* * *

"This is the true test right here," Sam was saying, as Dean sat in the kitchenette of their motel room and watched his younger brother clear away his half-finished food, "The moment you stop eating like a girl, that's when I know you're better."

Dean looked up at him blearily, "I _am_ better-"

"Coming from unconscious, sure," Sam said, "But you are not going anywhere yet."

Dean just shrugged in acquiescence. He was still feeling poorly, that was fair, but he's also feeling more alert than he has in days. "Dad's not worried enough to be staying home from work tomorrow though, so that's good, right? And Bobby's headed back out to South Dakota tonight." It was also why the two men had gone on for a drink and probably to talk shop after having dinner with the two boys.

"You'd just better behave while you're alone here," Sam pointed out, "And _really_ rest."

"I've been resting all day," Dean yawned, "I've been resting since I was in the hospital. I've gone to hunts in worse shape than this and you know it. Now I'm just bored. I'm booooooored."

"I'm not reassured by any of that," Sam commented as he washed the dishes, " And I'd have boredom any day, most people would. Your idea of excitement is kind of psychotic. For instance: telling nice, sensible, normal girls that there are ghosts in car trunks."

Dean groaned, "Ugh... I was gonna tell you, but dad was hanging around and stuff."

"Why'd you tell her, Dean?" Sam asked, turning to face him.

"She was feeling guilty," Dean mumbled, "I told her it wasn't her fault, and that there was nothing any of us could do because we were shoved into this thing years too late."

"She thinks you're brain-damaged," Sam told him.

"Who wouldn't?" Dean sighed, peering at Sam curiously, "So Annie's back in school too, huh? What else did she say?"

"Nothing," Sam shrugged, "Other people came over and we couldn't talk."

"You know why else I told her?" Dean asked, "She said she could hear Linda crying, and that she thinks she'll always hear Linda crying. If it's just her traumatic memories screwing with her then there's nothing we can do. But if the ghost latched onto her and is haunting her, then that's entirely something else."

"I'll sneak an EMF meter in my bag," Sam resolved, "And see if I get a read when I'm around her."

"Good idea," Dean agreed, "So uh... what else happened, back in school?"

"There were some reporters," Sam conveyed, "But just out the doors and in the morning. People were... nice, you know. This girl showed me her legs, and like the cafeteria lady at the hospital-"

Dean's eyes widened comically, "Woah. Sam, hang on a sec. What do you mean this girl showed you - "

"Just weird stuff," Sam said dismissively, "You'll know what I'm talking about when you go back. Which is like, in a week if any of us can help it."

Dean snorted at him, "The only thing I hate more than school is sitting around being useless here all day. This girl really showed you...nevermind. Bottom-line: I think I'd better get back to school ASAP, and capitalize on the freebies and all this leg-action before it gets old."

"You would," Sam snorted.

* * *

The next morning, Dean was still shaky, but with his father off to work, Sam away at school and Bobby headed back home, he had both opportunity and boredom-driven desire to go over to the Huntington house and give Jed his check back.

He knew where the house was because everyone did; the biggest in town, and it was as plain and simple as that. He drove over carefully to the iron gates of the property, marveling at the high columns and the rolling, manicured lawns, wondering what in all of the universe a three-person family like the Huntingtons needed all that damned space for.

He buzzed on the intercom, and a prim voice inquired about who he was and what he wanted.

"Dean Winchester," he said, "Here to see Mr. Huntington."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Didn't know I needed one."

"I suggest you make arrangements to see him with his secretary," the voice told him, "Mr. Huntington is an incredibly busy man. But I will tell him you were by, Mr. Winchester..." the robotic tone of the voice drifted as Dean's name rolled off of his tongue, "Dean Winchester?"

"That's what I said," Dean retorted, beginning to get a headache in annoyance. He rubbed at his forehead in pain and exasperation, "So call his office, right? You got that num-"

The gates swung open with a low groan, to Dean's surprise.

"Go on in, Mr. Winchester," the voice instructed him, this time with much more marked warmth, "Follow the curvature of the road to the main entrance of the house, please."

_A house you can get lost in without directions_, Dean reflected numbly as he drove his car forward, _That is just not right_.

He pulled over to a stop at the rotunda, behind a deep, forest green Mercedes with its motor running, apparently waiting for someone to come out. He discovered within seconds that it was Margie Huntington, wearing a trim day-suit and rows of pearls around her long, elegant neck. There was a huge smile on her face, and she greeted him with an embrace.

"Hello, Dean," she said, pulling away and kissing the air next to both his cheeks. He's seen it done before, but never actually _participated_. He pursed his lips and clumsily reciprocated, hitting his nose on her cheekbones and wincing. She was gracious enough to pretend it didn't happen.

"I am so glad to see you on your feet," she said, looking at his face intently, "You look a little pale... are you all right? Would you like to sit down, have some water? Should you be driving? Should I call someone?"

"I'm fine," he assured her, "I'm good, Mrs. Huntington. Going back to school in a few days, as a matter of fact."

"That's delightful, Dean," she said, beginning to tug him by the elbow toward her waiting vehicle, "You wanted to see Jed?"

"If I could, I mean," Dean said, "I was told he's busy-"

"Nonsense," she assured him, "He's at the club. Ride with me, and I'll have Daniel drive you back here to your car after you boys have your little chat."

"I can just come back-"

She steered him to the waiting, chauffeured car, "He'll be happy to see you, I guarantee it."

He gulped nervously, but let himself be bullied inside the backseat of the car next to her. He didn't tend to do very well with resisting stubborn, motherly figures, and he was weary enough not to be willing to put up a fight he knew he was going to lose. The objective was just to give the damn check back and go home, after all.

For a moment, he entertained the idea of just giving her the check to give back to her husband. But then he wasn't sure if she even knew about it and he generally didn't look forward to getting husbands in trouble with their spunky wives.

"He's at a club, you said?" he asked, shifting in his seat as the car rolled forward. The vehicle was too damn quiet, and he wasn't very good with silence, generally.

"The Country Club, Dean," she told him primly, patting his knee, "And would you like to do lunch, dear? I have a quick meeting but I think we can sneak off to do lunch."

"Um... no thank you," Dean said quickly, he's never _done _lunch before, the damn lunch just gets eaten, right? "I'd hate to take up more of your time than I have to. I really just needed like, two minutes, Mrs. Huntington."

She gave him a sidelong glance, and her lips curved up a little, "I think I know what this is about. And no, you don't have to cover up for him. I know about the checks, dear. If he'd told me sooner, you'd be getting at least twice as much." She shook her head in disapproval, concluding simply, "_Men_."

"So can I just give it back to you?" Dean asked eagerly, ready to just spring out of the fancy car.

"No, you go see him," she said evenly, "Let him talk you out of giving it back. All young men need their own money, in my eye. And from our end... I am going to tell you something about parents, Dean. They want everything about their children to be in their control, because they just want their children to be safe. This whole thing with Annie... he's shook up about it, we both are. For Jed... once you slap a price tag on it, he finally knows how to make sense of things, how they fit in the world. We cannot quantify our gratitude, Dean, but how can we not try? So just take the money, and knock us out of our misery."

They pulled over to the entrance of 'the club', and it struck Dean for the first time that ratty old jeans, weathered boots, thousand-times-worn flannel and hand-me-down leather jacket fit in here about as much as he did. Margie Huntington put her hand at the crook of his elbow and folded his arm, latching onto him, keeping him from escape as she led him into her world.

* * *

"No one's looking for her."

Sam's head shot up at the voice that interrupted his reading. He was in the library, having been excused from the exertions of gym class while he was recovering, doing some draft work on an essay. Annie Huntington sat across from him with her urgent, excitable stage-whispering. She looked a little manic.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"No one's looking for her," Annie said again, emphatically, "I've been thinking about that, why no one has reported Linda – the one who was trapped with me in the car - as missing. Maybe it is... maybe it is an old kidnapping. Just like your brother said."

Sam glanced at her, and then at the EMF meter peeking out of his rucksack. If the thing started beeping in here, he'd be in trouble with the librarian, but then again that would be the least of their problems. It remained silent though, which indicated to him that the crying Annie had been hearing was more likely traumatic memory than a haunting. This meant that they didn't have to drag the girl into the supernatural anymore.

"Well he hit his head," Sam told her carefully, "So he knocked some screws loose. I'd take whatever he's been saying with a grain of salt."

She blinked at him in surprise, "But... but it makes more sense to me now."

_Makes sense_, Sam thought miserably. Dean had been right, when he said that those were _so _the wrong choice of words in talking about their job.

"I've let the idea sink in," Annie said, "And maybe she is... maybe she is a g-ghost."

"That's great," Sam said thinly, pinching at the bridge of his nose. This was _fantastic_. He was not inclined at all dealing with 'civilians' in school. _What a nightmare_.

"I've thought of a way I can find out for sure," she said, "I can't... I can't just let this go, Sam. It's eating at me, and I can't sleep, and I can't stop thinking of that poor girl – whether she's a g-ghost or not. It's almost secondary. I just... I don't care. I just wanna help her."

"What way?" Sam asked her, suspiciously.

"I think I can get access to the car in evidence," she told him, "I can get in there, Sam."

Sam blinked at her in a moment of stupefying surprise, "What – how -"

"The cops let your brother drive down Daffy-Ashland Way to try and remember more about what happened that night, right?" she pointed out, "Maybe they'd let me do the same thing in the trunk... let me relive the time I was in there. I'll tell them it might jog my memory and come up with more leads, and I'll take the chance to see what's really going on inside that trunk."

TO BE CONTINUED...

... In the next chapter, Dean invades a country club and goes back to school, and John gets an earful from Sam, whose teenage angst erupts into open antagonism when the hunt for Linda Carin's ghost reopens. 'Til the next post!


	8. Chapter 8

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

MASSIVE THANKS to the awesome reviewers of _Less Traveled By_. While I cannot respond individually to your reviews just yet, I am working as hard as I can to churn these chapters out for you in a timely fashion and hopefully for the entire fic to be done before the year ends (cross your fingers for me!). I feel like time is chasing me and breathing down my neck, haha, because I have to leave for a couple of weeks by mid-December so wish me luck! :) As always, your c & c's are welcome and cherished!

Without further ado, Chapter 8 of _Less Traveled By_:

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Less Traveled By

8: Miscast, Misshapen

_1997_

* * *

Dean squirmed inside –_ dying slowly _-but gave everyone who had said 'hello' to him and Margie Huntington as they walked by the best smile he could muster. He was self-aware enough to know that when done right it could be disarming, and _damned _if the best defense wasn't a good offense.

He bore the attention more or less patiently, but Margie Huntington was both a slow-walker and a busy socialite, and this damn business is tiring.

_Does she know everyone in this joint?_ he wondered, _Is her sense of direction all whacked or did we just take the long way around_?

It took him a long moment to wonder, _Is she showing me off?_

It was a little bit disconcerting - and certainly unexpected - to find that in his old clothes and with his bruised face, this lady was walking around seemingly _proud_ to know him.

He paid closer attention after that, how she held his elbow close, led him subtly so he looked like he knew exactly where he was going. She took her time, and she was gracious with the people around them. It was a strange experience, and stranger still when she introduced him to a group of people he saw on TV a couple of days ago when he was still in the hospital: a daytime talk show host, a fashion designer and a soap star. They looked like those wax museum replicas with their perfect skin and controlled expressions.

_Someone (who isn't Sammy before he hit puberty) is proud to know me_, he thought, _Weird_.

She led him past high-ceilinged marble lobbies and airy gardens to an unoccupied ballroom flooded by glorious natural lighting streaming from barely-there floor-to-ceiling glass windows lining one wall, reflecting against mirrors lining the other. Crystal chandeliers hung over their heads, and Margie's snappy shoes made thin, sharp noises on the polished wooden floors. Everything looked delicate and _clickety-clackety_ in Dean's eye, and he felt obtrusive and destructive walking around in that space.

She walked him over to sit by the chair of the grand piano in one corner of the room, explaining as she went, "I'll get my husband, Dean, just sit here, all right?"

He blew out a breath as she exited. The walk had been pleasantly distracting but still exhausting, and the lighting in this room was a little overwhelming to his still-healing head. But it was almost worth the fact that Margie made him feel welcome and wanted here, not like he was some interloper fit only for the back door (or a break-in), which is what he'd usually had to be in his life.

He shot to his feet at the sound of Jed Huntington stepping inside the room, trailed by his wife. Just as in the hospital, the bear of a man headed right for him in a stance that resembled a charge. Dean had to check his instincts and not-deck the man as he enfolded Dean in his massive arms.

"Jed," Margie admonished her husband, also as always, "Let him breathe."

Reminding her husband not to accidentally kill the kid was – apparently - the extent of her duties there. She left them alone shortly afterwards, walking away and murmuring about that lunch Dean really didn't want to have to '_do_.'

"Dean, Dean," Jed said, drawing out a cigar and a match as he regarded the younger man thoughtfully, "I think I know what this is about. The cigar bother you?"

"No sir, that's fine," Dean replied, "I really didn't want to take up a lot of your time," he drew out the check from his pocket, "I just wanted to give this back. I was going to just not-deposit it, but in case you wondered... I thought it would be better like this. Clearer."

"You know I won't take it," Jed told him with a raised brow, "Why bother?"

"Well I won't have it either," Dean countered, "So where does that leave us?"

Jed smiled at him tightly, squinting at the check in Dean's hand, "I see Sam will be hanging onto his. Smart kid, your brother."

"We have different priorities," Dean admitted, "And I might regret this one day, but I really don't want it, Mr. Huntington. I really don't."

Jed's eyes narrowed contemplatively, "Dean... let me tell you a little bit about me. I didn't come from a rich family and as a matter of fact, we were piss-poor. I made my fortune with my brains, and undoubtedly with guts and fists and sweat and blood and tears. I'm proud of what I've achieved, but I never forget where I'm from and I'll never disown it. I can tell you from personal experience that I know rough kids when I see them because I know what it takes to survive," he looked at Dean pointedly, "I know what you've had to be just to get by. I know it stains you sometimes. But _damned _if I don't recognize promise too. And I see it in you in spades. I see the same in Sam. It would be a shame if that promise was not actualized. That money is not much, I know. It won't pay for college, for instance, but it helps get you nearer somehow, and it's the least I could do for you."

The speech raised Dean's hackles a little bit, made him feel defensive before he checked it. His promise was not being _wasted _in the hunt; his job as a hunter may be different, but it wasn't any less than this guy's or anyone else's. Maybe it even counted for more! But before he could get too annoyed, he also thought about how Jed Huntington could possibly comprehend that if he didn't know what Dean and his family really did.

_I'm not wasted where I am_, Dean wanted to scream, even as he knew that he couldn't.

"Like I said," he repeated, mouth dry, "My priorities are different. I can't... I can't just up and go to college like the next kid. I gotta stick around, for my family. And I'm good at what I do... helping out my dad with the family business." He pressed the check Jed's way, "Please, Mr. Huntington. Man to man, if you respect me... I would appreciate it if you just took it back. It was the least _I_ could do to help your daughter, and most people would have anyway."

Jed pressed his lips together in mild disapproval over his failure to convince the teenager, before just taking the check. He nodded at Dean grimly, before putting the piece of paper on top of the covered grand piano and putting out his cigar on it. He watched Dean's resolute face as he destroyed the check.

"You're not most people, Dean," he said with a shake of his head, before his eyes lit up, "Hey, how about a job? You want a part-time job in my office? We pay top-dollar for fine young talents-"

Dean actually laughed at that. "You will overpay me for photocopying made-up nonsense or something and you know it, Mister. I think I'm good. You're irrepressible."

"How about a steak and lobster lunch?" Jed said, plying a heavy arm over his shoulder and leading him out of the ballroom, "You told me to respect you like a man, and no right-thinking man would say no to that."

"I can't," Dean winced even at the mere thought of food, "I'm on these meds, and the food just doesn't sit right with them yet."

"Oh no," Jed's face crumpled, "Okay, well... I'll have Daniel bring you home so you can rest, then."

They stepped out of the room and right into the overly attentive sphere of the family chauffeur, who seemed to know exactly what was expected of him before having to be told.

Jed waved at a couple of men on the other side of the room who looked like they were waiting for him. These men looked far grimmer than Margie's friends, probably because they were here on business rather than pleasure. They looked like a band in a funeral.

"We'll re-schedule when you're better," he told Dean, shaking his hand warmly, "You're a good kid, Dean. Bright things, I see, bright things for you."

* * *

The Huntington's chauffeur drove Dean back to the mansion, where he grabbed his car and drove back to the Winchester's motel on his own. The chauffeur had followed him home to make sure he got back all right, but _damned _if being followed by a stranger didn't make Dean's back itch. When he pulled over to park, Daniel waved at him cheerily before driving off.

Dean was a bit winded by the time he got back, but was relieved that the day's business was done with. He fell to a light sleep, and woke up just as his father and Sam entered the motel room. The two Winchesters looked like they were _steaming_, and he wondered for a brief moment of panic if he'd been caught leaving the house when he was ordered to rest.

"Hey guys," he greeted them tentatively, moving to get up from bed.

"Sit," John barked at him. He stayed where he was, and Sam sat next to him.

"I can explain...?" he began with his most winsome grin, even as he wondered what this was going to be about, exactly. He glanced at Sam, wide-eyed, and his younger brother shook his head at him minutely, as if in warning, _Don't even try it_.

John started pacing the room a little, and when his back was turned, Dean took advantage of the opportunity to mouth at Sam, _"What the hell...?"_

"You didn't tell me that you told Annie Huntington about the ghost," John began, glaring at Dean as he paced. When he turned his back on his sons again, Dean mouthed "_Snitch_" to Sam before answering. His younger brother just shrugged at him, looking indignant, _What was I supposed to do_?

"I was going to," Dean said with a nervous gulp, "Eventually. Come on, dad, what harm would it have done? She was going nuts with the guilt, she was maybe being haunted if that ghost had latched onto her, so I thought I'd give the truth a shot. Was she?" he turned to his younger brother, "Being haunted, I mean?"

"Nope," Sam said.

"Good," Dean remarked before continuing, "Well anyway, I thought the worst thing that could happen is that she finds me nuts, and even then we can just say – I hit my head, ignore me."

"The worst that could happen is that she believes you, as it turns out," John told him, nodding at Sam, "She was talking to your brother earlier today, and she said she's making arrangements to go back inside that trunk and find out for sure."

Dean eyes widened, "But that's-"

"Dangerous, yeah," John said, running a hand over his face wearily, "Annie can ask the ghost questions, or talk her into the light, whatever... but you can't tell beforehand how the ghost will react to the information. She can turn violent; she can hurt Annie."

"Shit, dad, I'm sorry," Dean said, "I never thought-"

"You didn't think," John snapped, cutting him off.

"But dad, how was he supposed to expect-" Sam argued.

"Sam," Dean warned his younger brother, who promptly shut his mouth, "I screwed up. I get it, I do. Now what?"

"Her excuse so that the cops would let her get back in that trunk is that it might jog her memory," Sam relayed, still looking peeved at their father but determined to be more productive about this and get Dean's ass out of the fire, "They're all out of leads, and I think they just might let her. They let _you_ do it with the car, after all."

"Is she being reasonable about all this?" Dean asked Sam.

The youngest Winchester shrugged, "She seems kinda... bewildered, kinda manic. Rightfully, I guess. I mean... what would you do, if you found out there's stuff sitting in the dark..." his voice trailed off. They all knew the answer to that, what his father had done, what the three of them had become, after the death of Mary Winchester.

"We have to try talking her out of it," Dean said, when Sam's words had made their father look distant, and pensive.

"No," John suddenly murmured, "No... There's no talking her out of this, I don't think, just like there's no taking back what she's seen and felt, what new reality she knows. There's no talking her out."

"So what?" Dean pressed, "What do you want us to do?"

"Short of torching that car before they let her back in there," John said, "We can't do anything, can we, except prepare her for what she'll meet inside."

"Prepare-" Dean stammered, "Dad, come on, a civilian-"

"She'll know more than most people at their first contact," John said, with more determination as he spoke, "We'll tell her what to say and what to do. And we'll be on standby."

"She'll be a sitting duck in there," Sam said distastefully, "And besides... I thought you said this hunt was done?"

"Well your brother nuked all chances of that, didn't he?" John snapped, and Dean winced, "I told you we do what we can with what we have. This is an opportunity, Sam. You said so yourself: Linda Carin's a victim too, and we got a chance now to put her to rest."

"You're just aching to get back in it aren't you?" Sam snapped at him, "Stop blaming Dean for this, dad, and stop using my words against me. This is different; you are putting an innocent girl in danger. And I bet you're just happy this hunt got burst wide open-"

"Watch your goddamn tone-"

"I wouldn't have to if you just listen to what I have to say!" Sam roared, and John fell silent, eyes burning and nostrils flaring in rage. Dean just sat there, wordless and stunned by his brother's outburst.

"When did it ever matter if Dean said something or if I said something?" Sam ranted, "If you wanted to pull the plug on a job, you could and if you wanted it on, it was. Dad... you're putting an innocent girl in danger. We can talk her out of this, or at least try. We gotta try. If you wanted it, we can put a lid on this."

"It's the job," John told him tersely, "We gotta do it, and that's the end of it."

"It's the job," Sam scoffed, "It's always the job-"

"Sam, dude - come on," Dean implored, but was promptly ignored.

"I'm sick and tired of the job," Sam said, and he could look so tough sometimes, Dean thought fleetingly, so strong and tough if not for his welling eyes. Those eyes were probably the only things keeping him from being decked by their father.

"I'm sick and tired," Sam finished, "I'm sick and tired of being the 'optional' part of your life, dad. The part you'd only look after when you had time or money to spare, the part you'd only hang onto when it's almost taken away, the part you'd listen to only when it's convenient. Like now... you're right, fine, I said it. We're here to help Linda Carin as much as the next innocent person, but I'm telling you now: not at the cost of harm to people who are still alive, like Annie."

John's eyes narrowed at Sam, "This isn't about you or me, Sam. It's about what needs to be done, and what can be done about it. Anyone who'd ever been shoved in this life was innocent, it's just the way it is. We have an opportunity now and we're going to take it, end of story."

John started for the door, and the sight of it was giving Dean a mild panic, "Dad, where are you-"

"I'll be back in a couple of hours – knock some sense into that brother of yours," John told him, marching out the door and shutting it behind him.

Sam groaned and laid back on the bed, rubbing at his face.

"We've been arguing about this since he grabbed me from school," Sam explained to Dean, voice muffled from beneath his hands, "I mean, he can't be right about this, can he? Tossing his own kids in the fire, fine, that seems more fair. We're his to lose, _apparently_. But a civvie? This can't be right, can it, Dean?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean sighed, "Hell, I'm kind of stuck on just being sorry about opening my big damn mouth."

"I'm sorry too," Sam said quietly, "That I told dad before telling you. I couldn't wait, I guess. She seemed determined, and I got nervous. Besides... I didn't think dad would be ragging your ass for it. You did the right thing in telling her what you did."

"I don't know about that," Dean argued, "If I'd just kept my mouth shut, Annie wouldn't be getting these crazy ideas in her head."

"Instead she'll have a lifetime thinking she failed this girl and got her killed," Sam pointed out and saying again, "You did the right thing, Dean."

"Annie should know the risks," Dean said thoughtfully, pressing at the bridge of his nose against another headache that was picking up, "Maybe she'll back out on her own, and we wouldn't have to worry about putting her in danger."

"You've taken your pills today?" Sam asked him, watching his pinched face worriedly.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "I did. But then there was this kid, doing all this crazy-ass screaming in my ear, giving me a headache."

Sam's lips quirked a little in a smile, "Shut up, Dean."

"I thought your head was gonna start spinning around," Dean teased him thinly, "Doc did say I could take something extra if it got bad."

"I'll grab your meds," Sam said, springing to his feet.

"Good idea," sighed Dean, "Gonna need the relief, especially if I wanna be back in school tomorrow."

"You wouldn't-!" Sam exclaimed.

"I'd say we have bigger problems than me getting these lame-assed headaches right now," Dean told him, "I'm better, Sam, I am. But this case is burst wide open again, so we just... gotta do what we gotta do. Right now, we need to talk to Annie."

* * *

It was a minor blessing that Dean was too weary to be pissed at the camera flashes and the warm attention of their schoolmates; he had settled for mildly bewildered, walking beside Sam along the school hall and looking wan and standing closer to his younger brother than he usually would.

"You good?" Sam asked under his breath, and Dean just winced and gave him a short nod. They lumbered over to Dean's locker, where three girls were already waiting.

"I'm really not up to this," Dean growled low, but he stood a little bit taller, and apart from Sam a little bit more.

"Hello, Dean," one of the girls said; she was the homecoming queen from Sam's lunch with Annie days before, "Hello, Sam."

"Ashley," Dean grinned, eyes crinkling warmly as he played along despite his lack of desire to do '_this' _(_whatever the hell 'it' was_, in Sam's eye). He nodded rakishly at the others too, "Girls."

"I'm soooo relieved you're okay," one of them, a petite Eurasian named Mikaela, cooed at him, earning a glare from her friends.

"I sent you pie," the last one, a blond named Cherry said in the spirit of oneupmanship. Sam guessed this one was probably Dean's favorite; she had the pie-awareness, for one, as well as the rock-song name.

"I loved it," Dean lied to her indulgently; he'd probably never even seen it. It was left behind at the hospital, like most of the other stuff John Winchester had turned away or given away.

Sam rolled back his eyes, and decided his brother probably didn't need to be taken care of by him right now, "Dean, you good?"

"I'm awesome, man," Dean assured him, "I'll see you later, huh?"

* * *

They saw each other sooner than either of them expected, pulled from homeroom and made to sit in the waiting room outside the principal's office. Sam was already there when Dean arrived, looking nervous.

"Anytime I sit here it makes me think I'd done something," he mumbled at Dean, who just chuckled and sat beside him.

"It's your guilty conscience," Dean teased him, "Reminding you of all your sins."

"It's my guilty conscience reminding me of all _your _sins," Sam retorted, shifting uneasily. The chairs and the waiting and the damned office reminded him of the times he'd had to sit here before being admitted to yet another new school, or if he or Dean got caught in some kind of trouble as they tried to fit into yet another new environment with all its bullies and assholes, or the couple of times they'd been set aside and asked if they were being abused by their father, because they've gone to class hurt and bruised from hunts many times.

"Chill, Sam," Dean told him, leaning back, projecting relaxation the more agitated Sam became, hoping to impart some of it to his younger brother.

The door into the waiting room opened again, and in came Annie Huntington. She registered surprise that they were there a moment before she sped over and sat hurriedly on Sam's other side, sandwiching him.

"Hi," she greeted them breathlessly, speaking of the need to _chill_.

"Annie," Dean returned more cautiously, "You uh... you okay? You're kind of rocking the crazy-eye a little there."

"Oh- what? No," she said, catching herself and squaring her shoulders, trying to get some of her composure back, "Did Sam tell you my idea? I floated it by Vaughn and Diamond, and they have some reservations so I'm not entirely sure how to convince them to let me at the trunk-"

"Later," Dean told her shortly, as Principal Strauss walked into the room, trailed by a lady the Winchesters remembered form their early admission days. It was Mrs. Medina, the guidance counselor.

"Good to see all three of you well and back in school," Principal Strauss grinned as he led the three teenagers to sit on the office couch, instead of on the stiff-backed trouble-seats in front of the massive desk.

"Your dedication to your studies is as admirable as your more heroic feats," he went on, making Dean cough to block out a helpless chortle.

"Water?" he offered them, "Tea?"

"No thank you, sir," Sam said, "Um... what is this about?"

"You know Mrs. Medina of course," Principal Strauss said, "We are here because while we are assured of your physical well-being following the kidnapping incident, we wanted to inform you that the school is making available counseling services in the event that you should need them. It might help, to speak of the things that concern you."

"You're giving us a shrink?" Dean asked, acerbically. Sam glanced at his older brother in misery. That would be fantastic for all three of them, really. There is, unfortunately, no repairing three teenagers on a ghost hunt.

"Think of it as a support group with good conversation, Dean," Medina told him, "The three of you have shared a traumatic experience, and we want to assure you that you are not alone."

"We're not alone," Dean said simply, closing off. He and Sam were practically _allergic _to shrinks, having been subject to some before in the midst of the messes associated with nosy civilians who felt it was their business how to run John Winchester's household. They've had to flee several towns and schools before the inquiries went official and on the ear of Family Services, Sam recalled vividly.

"Annie might feel better being backed by you and Sam," Medina said emphatically, "To have regular, periodic, therapeutic talks about how to cope better in the aftermath of so world-altering a personal event. Am I correct, Annie?"

She frowned at her, equally displeased, before her eyes brightened, "You know what would be really therapeutic, Mrs. Medina?"

"What, dear?"

"If I can see that car," Annie told her earnestly, "The one I was trapped in? The one they just pulled out of the lake? If I can have access to it, and-" Sam watched her in awe, and recognized a bullshit-artist when he saw one because he did grow up with Dean, "And _confront my demons_, you know, let the reality sink in and remind myself that _the nightmare is over_, that I got out, that I'm safe and that I survived, that _I can go on with my life_."

Dean slapped a hand over his face, miserably, feeling all the cliches and psycho-babble she tossed into that one sentence stick to his clothes like oil and grime and a bad episode of _Oprah_.

Mrs. Medina frowned in thought, "That is not at all a bad idea, Annie. I will speak with some colleagues, and find a way to endorse this to local law enforcement."

"I would appreciate that," Annie said gravely, but Sam noted some triumph and hunger in her eyes, just the eagerness to see what was real, and to do what she could for whoever was in that trunk with her, dead or alive.

"You all right there, Dean?" Principal Strauss inquired, "You seem a bit peaked."

"Yes," Dean replied with teeth-clenched in a pained smile, "Absolutely awesome. You understand Sam and I are also interested in this confronting-the-demons thing too, right? _To get over the trauma_ and all that-" s_hit_, Sam heard at the end of the sentence, not needing Dean to voice it.

"Yes, of course," Medina said, making some notes, "Let me see what I can do."

* * *

Sam, Dean and Annie exited the Principal's Office and started walking back to their respective classrooms. The hallways were empty, what with everyone being in homeroom.

"You really have no idea what you're getting into," Dean told Annie disdainfully.

"I'm in it whether I know what I'm doing or not, from what I understand," Annie told him, a little heatedly in reaction to his tone.

"I can't believe I'm saying this here," Dean said, looking around at the lockers and the cheerful amateur poster-art and the squeaky floors, at the lights and the subtle sounds of busy rooms behind closed classroom doors, "It's a fricking ghost, Annie. And we're not talking Swayze and romance here, we are talking possibly-violent, unpredictable thing in an enclosed space with a lot of rightfully pent-up aggression. Entities that can actually, _actually _hurt you."

"But she can also just be a nice girl, right?" Annie said, "Someone quiet and reasonable, and someone who's just been waiting for someone to tell her what's what? Someone who's been waiting all this time for someone to start asking the right questions, for someone to help her?"

"You know I don't get it," Dean said, halting and having his two companions perforce halting with him, "You go one second thinking a guy's brain-damaged, and next thing I know, you're not just hopping on the crazy-train you are fricking driving it. What's up with that?" He added with as much condescension as he could muster, "Is it a woman-thing?"

"Before you told me about Linda Carin," she replied, not rising to the bait, "You asked me several things, remember that? You told me you wouldn't say stuff to hurt me. You asked me if I thought you were crazy, and you asked me if I trusted you. Well... while I do think you're nuts, I think you're nuts in a different way. And contrary to how I felt just a couple of days ago – god knows why – I think I do trust you. I've had time to think about this, Dean. I can't... I can't let this go. I categorically can't, I think I'm literally unable. No one seems to have an answer to this but you. I can't not give it a shot.

"I think I'm losing my mind," she went on, hands trembling as they raked over her well-kept hair, dislodging the dark strands, "I can't sleep, I can't think of anything else but her, and I'm just... splintered all over, cut up wrong, like I'm out of the trunk but I can't fit in the world anymore because I'm the wrong shape now. I feel like I'm not all here, or here is not _here_, you know, it's not real, there's something else out there and everything around me is plastic and all the people are made of cardboard. I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for it all to collapse or for someone to fold it up and take it away."

The brothers glanced at each other, thoughtfully. They knew about seeking answers and not being able to do anything else but get there. They knew about pervasive secret realities that you had to be hyper-vigilant about in case they reared their ugly heads and wrecked the surprisingly fragile 'real world.' They knew about how the rest of the universe as most people understood and lived it felt more like a stage. They knew about being miscast there, and about being misshapen. _God_ did they know.

"There's some things we have to tell you before all this goes down," Sam said cautiously, speaking for both himself and Dean. The older Winchester set his jaws and looked away, but remained silent.

"My house tonight?" she invited them, "Dinner and 'homework?'"

* * *

Dean had called up their father to say that they would be home late, and just be driven back to the motel by the same Huntington chauffeur who had picked the three of them up from school. John was cautious but open-minded, especially after he was informed that the objective of the meeting was to brief Annie on what to expect when she came into her second encounter with Linda Carin.

The three teenagers had a light meal in the formal dining room of the mansion before settling in to work at the family library. Weirdly enough, they actually actually _did_ some actual actual _homework_. Annie, who was in an advanced placement class with the seniors, asked Dean about some calculus, before the conversation turned rather casually and anticlimactically toward Linda Carin's ghost.

"So apparently, ghosts are real, right?" Annie asked, after being satisfied with Dean's interpretation of quadratic equations, "What else is real?"

"Many things you wouldn't expect or want to be are real," Dean said wryly, "But we'll just stick with the things you need to know right now. I don't want your head to explode."

"Ghosts are spirits that stick around our world for a number of reasons," Sam said, "Sometimes they are bound by relatives who won't let them go, or if they have unresolved personal issues. The ties that allow them to stay are body parts, even the most minute, like hair. Other times, these ties are things that can count practically as body parts, things that really mattered to the person when he or she was alive. Other times, like when bodies get cremated, it doesn't matter if they have physical ties to the world; they stick around when the emotional ties are strong enough, like in traumatic experiences. Ghosts in general have some pretty distinct habits; they haunt particular places, particular things, particular people. There are pretty clear rules, once you've figured them out."

"So Linda," Annie summed, "She's in the trunk maybe because her DNA is in there, or maybe because it's a traumatic experience for her, or both, right?"

"Right," Dean affirmed, "Now like Sammy said, ghosts are big on habits and rules. The moment you jar that order, they might get pissed off. For instance if you move things around, renovate or sell a property, tell them distressful things... stuff like that. Needless to say, you start yapping at her about how she's dead and that she's a ghost or that she was actually murdered by someone, it's reasonable to expect her to freak the fuck out."

"So what do I do?" Annie asked, "How can I talk to her?"

"You go slow and gentle," Dean said, "And when you feel the attitude shift, you play it by ear and you either go in some more or you back the hell out. There's a lot of discretion involved, you get that now, right? That's why I think you're out of your head to think you can do this, newbie."

"I'm the same age as you," she pointed out.

"I've been at this since I was..." he glanced at Sam, "Four years old, so I think I'd know what I'm talking about."

"Four years old...?" she echoed, "How did you-"

"A long story for a different day," he told her with a rakish grin, and Sam knew the mask was on for this more than on any other question, "I was told mystery is sexy."

"When a ghost gets violent," Sam moved on, pretending to be obtuse and relieving Dean of having to answer Annie's question, "The typical defenses are salt and iron. Materials made from these that come into contact with the apparition causes them to disperse temporarily, but not for long."

"Iron?" she wrinkled her nose at them skeptically, "Salt?"

"Salt is mentioned many times in the Bible and in different mythologies and all sorts of rites across a lot of religions, same was with iron," Dean told her, faux-mockingly, "You really should read more."

"There's mentions of them not just in the Bible," Sam enumerated primly, "But by the Aztecs, in Judaism, mythologies of Hinduism, Shintoism, ancient rites and writings of the Egyptians, Greeks and Romans. Both seem to have something to do with representations of life; salt of the earth, component in the bl-"

"And you need to read less," Dean sighed, "Focus, geek-boy. Breathe or something."

"Okay I get it," Annie said, "But you said dispersing a ghost, it's temporary."

"If you want them away for good," Dean said, "You have to find out where the body is buried or whatever of it is left, or whatever valuable thing that person had, and then you put salt on it, some handy accelerant if you have any, and then burn it. Salt and burn."

"You've um," she gulped, "You've dug up bodies and burnt them."

Dean just shrugged, and went on, "If there's no physical link or if a ghost is staying not because of a physical link, then you got no choice but to, you know. Talk them into the light."

"What does that-"

"It means exactly what it sounds like," Sam told her, "You try and tell them to head to the better place. We're uh... we're not the best at it because we don't get that a lot. The other way is easier."

"No arguments, you know," Dean agreed, "No philosophical shit. Salting and burning is cleaner. Figuratively, that is, 'cos of course you'd end up messier if you had to dig someone up."

She actually paled a little, but nodded.

"So uh..." she bit her lip thoughtfully, and her eyes shined in hope, "This 'better place' you tell ghosts to head to. It's real too...? Is that... is that heaven?"

"We don't know," Sam admitted, and he regretted having to do so because her eyes dimmed, "But from what we've seen, the ones who were good people go off to some sort of light, wherever it leads."

"So..." she stammered, "So how do we do this?"

"If they let us at that car," Dean began, "We have to get the detectives and anyone else around off our backs. If your parents are coming with, you'd better know how to get rid of them unless you want them knowing about ghosts and redecorating your room with padded white walls. Tell them you need space or privacy to reflect or whatever."

Annie nodded earnestly.

"Sam and I," Dean said, "We'll stick around. We can all say we're trying to cope with this or some bull like that. Our dad probably should stay too, but I don't think we'll have any luck with that if you're sending your parents away."

"He won't like that," Sam said, "But he'll have to trust us to handle it. Wouldn't be the first time."

"Your dad sends you out on stuff like this?" Annie asked, "On your own? How does that happen?" The brothers just looked at her and she sighed, "Okay, I get it. Long story, different day. Got it."

"Once it's just the three of us and that car," Dean went on, "We'll try and summon the ghost out and talk to her. I don't want anyone going inside the trunk unless it's absolutely needed. If Linda plays ball and steps out, we'll ask her full name, the last thing she remembers before waking up in the trunk, people who may be angry at her and who would maybe hurt her, things like that."

"And if she doesn't show?" Annie asked.

Sam winced, "And just to manage expectations here, she probably won't."

"Then we go inside," Dean said, "We go inside the trunk, and we talk to her in there."

"'We?'" Annie echoed, "What do you mean 'we?'"

"Well maybe not 'we,'" Dean said, "Maybe... me."

"What?" Sam and Annie exclaimed at the same time.

"I told you," Dean said to Annie, "This isn't something for a newbie. 'Sides, I kinda have the feeling it's my fault you got reeled into this."

"No," Annie argued, "You said it yourselves: ghosts are big on rules and order, right? How's she gonna feel getting shoved into the dark with a guy? Besides, we have proven from past experience that she won't hurt me."

"I'll know what to do," Dean countered, "I'll know what to say. I've been doing this a long time, sugar. She'll like me, everyone does."

Sam didn't take the last line very seriously. "She's right, Dean. Besides... the more I think about it, I don't think the adults will be leaving us alone. It's evidence, right, the cops won't take their eyes off of it, the potential liabilities will be huge. It'll have to be Annie going in there with the excuse that she wants to try and remember more, right in front of everybody."

TO BE CONTINUED...

... in Chapter 9, where we return to the trunk of the car :) 'Til the next post!


	9. Chapter 9

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

Thank you so much for all the love you've been tossing my way for this fic; I truly appreciate it, especially since I haven't been able to give replies and return that time you've been sharing with me. Rest assured though that your reviews are being read (they give me an indication of whether or not I'm headed the right way) and are certainly taken in and cherished. I have to leave in a couple of days so I'm going nuts trying to finish this fic before the year ends so you wouldn't have to wait so long... wish me luck, and I hope you stick around because we are definitely nearing completion of this WIP. Chapter 10 is almost done, and I am working on the Epilogue and Afterword, which should conclude the fic. As always, your c & c 's are enriching and enlightening and ever-welcome if you can spare them, and without further ado, Chapter 9 of _Less Traveled By_:

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Less Traveled By

9: Toward the Light

_1997_

* * *

_I'm really taking a beating on this_, John thought morosely over his makeshift dinner of milk and generic cereal (_or shredded pieces of its cardboard box for all that it sure as hell tasted like it_).

A bad dinner alone, with one of his kids sputtering-pissed at him and the other killing him with quiet tolerance, and temporarily out of the center of a hunt that could have saved him from everything by distraction...

The groceries reminded him of Sam and that humbling trip to the supermarket, and of Dean who usually took on the task. It took many things to run a home, he reflected, and he had to concede that sometimes he just wasn't man enough to do it.

_Sometimes_? he scoffed at himself, _Who was he kidding?_

He heard a car pull over just outside the door of the motel room, heard Dean and Sam's shuffling footsteps, noisy and unabashedly carelessly _teenage_ in casual circumstances outside of a hunt. John rose from his seat almost excitedly to open the door for them, eager to be out of the immediate sphere of his awful meal.

"Hey, dad," Dean greeted, heading straight for the table his father had just abandoned and sinking to a chair with a breathy sigh.

"Hey dad," Sam greeted him too, without steam (as opposed to their recent bruising encounters), distracted by his older brother's weariness. He shoved a paper bag his father's way, "L-O's. Dean and I brought you food from Annie's."

John blinked at the package, smelled the_ damned glorious_ food, neatly packed, still warm."Thanks boys," he said, getting right down to business and sitting on the table in front of Dean, tearing into the new meal.

"Dean, I told you," Sam snapped, "Change and go to bed already, you're wiped."

"Nagnagnag," Dean snapped back, straightening in his seat, "So dad, lemme give you the low-down."

Sam rolled back his eyes, but sat next to Dean at the table. His older brother briefed their father about what they had just told Annie as John ate, and Sam picked at and nibbled some of the sticks of vegetables on the side of John's plate.

_He blows hot and cold, this one_, John reflected. Sam's move was very casually intimate, an imperceptible action with weighty meanings that John knew they both unspokenly recognized. The Winchesters, after all, were never really into things like admitting mistakes or for apologizing, but they had their own ways of making peace with each other.

"Sounds about right," John said when Dean finished, "I know you'd rather not be doing this," he looked at Sam specifically, "But this is good, boys. Good job."

"We'll get into more stuff in the next few days," Sam said, "Other stuff she can ask, things like that. And from our end, we just have to make sure she's safe."

"I'd give her a time limit," John mused aloud, "We pull her out after five minutes max, even if there are no signs of distress."

"Five - is that just arbitrary?" Sam asked, but didn't wait for a response when he noticed Dean's eyes were slipping to half-open, "Dean!"

"What?" the older teen mumbled irritably, blinking himself to finer awareness, "Five minutes. See? I _was_ listening; and no, it's not just arbitrary, squirt. If the ghost decides to hurt her, she runs out of air, whatever... longer than five minutes and brain cells start to die. Or something like that."

"You're wiped," Sam told him emphatically, noting the response but feeling more worried about him than enlightened, "Go to bed already."

Dean took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face wearily. He looked first at Sam, and then his father, "Is anyone gonna be killing anyone the moment I stop watching?"

"Dean," John growled at him, "Go to bed - that's an order."

Dean got up and bid them good night with a half-hearted wave. He didn't even bother changing for bed, he just face-planted his way into dreamland.

"I wish I could do that," Sam said, awed, "_That's an order_."

"I wish I could do that _with you_," John told him pointedly.

Sam's dimples winked at him, but the kid suppressed a grin, or maybe a derisive laugh. The sheer nerve and _impunity!,_ John thought helplessly, and _damned_ if it wasn't endearing when neither of them were being antagonistic about it.

* * *

The reporters left a few days into the return of Sam and Dean Winchester and Annie Huntington in school, off to chase new leads somewhere else or some other story. Sam had wondered with mixed feelings if the warm attention he and his brother were receiving from classmates in school were subject to the same finiteness, but this was promptly answered (in the negative) during the lunch hour.

He takes his usual spot of semi-obscurity; he would never be bold enough to assume he'd be welcome at the 'cool' table. As he started peacefully digging into his food, Dean spots him and slides into the seat across. Sam wasn't quite sure what the point was though, because he barely even gave Sam a cocky grin to acknowledge him, already occupied by Cherry and her friends who had trailed him there. Annie spots them too, and takes over another seat, dragging along a couple other people. The clique grew on from there.

It was kinetic and noisy, but it was also strangely nice. Being surrounded by people like this was like wearing a really fancy disguise; Sam was still inalienably apart from everyone else, was still unforgettably different inside. But he felt less like a sore thumb sticking out and more like the sun, surrounded by colorful rotating planets.

* * *

The three teenagers relocate to the Winchester base of operations to continue their briefing and planning. It was in the spirit of fairness, and also to give Annie a few minutes with John.

They walked to the nearby motel together, although they were trailed by one of the Huntington's cars, driven by the family chauffeur.

"It's kind of creepy," Dean told her wryly. The three of them waved as several vehicles honked at them before passing them by. It was a couple of their lunch buddies heading home.

"Mom and dad have no plans of letting me out of their sights anytime soon," Annie said, "I don't mind, it's kind of reassuring. And Daniel too, I guess. He's been with the family a long time. I think he also feels bad that I was kidnapped so he's been really vigilant. When he drops me off for school he waits until I'm inside before leaving, and when he picks me up he's always early so that by the time I step out he's already there."

"Kind of like you with me," Sam teased his older brother.

"Shut up," Dean growled at him. They walked over to the door of the Winchesters' room, Dean running a hand across the Impala's side like a small 'hello' as he passed her by.

"Speaking of creepy," Sam said under his breath, an aside to Annie who had laughed.

"Dad should be back from work in a little bit," Dean told her, sliding the key into the lock, "And you gotta know; it's not much, but it's home."

While Sam was certain that Dean cared what she thought, Dean certainly didn't watch her face as she looked around the small space, probably expecting that he would not be pleased with what he would find there. Sam did though, and closely.

Her pleasant face registered shock before anything else – _Oh... _- the moment of recognition of the profound discrepancy between their lives. That _yes_, these boys really were really categorically poor. The look turned to curiosity, because her gaze moved from wide to piercing; _how do you live, where are you from, who are you_... and then her eyes warmed, because in her search for answers, she found three sets of boots lined up against a wall, bags neatly alongside each other. There were three bowls, three plates, three mugs... She caught Sam's eagle-eye, and she smiled at him brightly. He blinked at the sheer warmth and generosity of it, and could only return it clumsily, caught by surprise.

* * *

As the night wore on, Sam liked to think that Annie grew to admire them more. She had watched Dean cook a mean mac n' cheese with fond skepticism, before she tasted it and then ate every piece of it she could get her hands on. She looked over Sam's report card posted on the fridge, saying maybe she should have asked him about calculus instead of Dean.

"No need to be mean," Dean told her wryly, though his eyes shone with pride for his younger brother; it was he, after all, who had put the thing there on display, "I gave you the right answers the last time, didn't I?"

She had listened to John in rapt attention as he told her more about the hunt and what to expect, eyes sharp as she took things in. Sam had to admit that in many ways, their father was one hell of a teacher. He was precise, perceptive, reassuring and most of all, he expected the best from his students.

She went home that day bearing vials of salt, and a small silver knife with an iron detail at the hilt, all for practice and possible use when she finally gets a chance to return to the trunk she had been imprisoned in to speak with Linda Carin. She went home looking hardy and prepared, gaze steely and sure, except toward the end, when the three men walked her out to her car and she seemed hesitant to leave. Daniel was waiting for her behind the wheel, the motor running.

"Thank you, Mr. Winchester," she told the oldest hunter earnestly, "Really. I can't say this enough, but this feels right. I think I can do this."

"I think you can too, Annie," he told her gruffly, patting her shoulder before leaving the kids alone and walking back inside.

She watched him go, saying, "Your dad's real awesome, guys. You have a wonderful family." She laughed nervously and admitted, "I'm almost sad to leave, like I'm missing out on part of the story when the door closes."

"This one's just headed to sleep so nothing to see," Sam pointed his thumb at his older brother, attempting for levity because they all had a sense of where this was going.

"How do you..." she hesitated, "I mean I've asked before, but, how do you know - you know what? Nevermind. Long story, different d-"

"Our mom," Dean told her, surprising all of them by his candidness. But Sam looked at his brother's face and knew that along the course of the evening, he too had seen how this girl – this stranger – had warmed to them and admired their family exactly for who they were. And no one gets on Dean's good side sooner than those who gave a care about the Winchesters.

"Our mom was killed by something," Dean admitted, and the words sounded like a confession, solemn and true and sorely regretted, "That's how we got into this. We've been trying to hunt it down and along the way, you find there's more craziness out there and you just gotta keep everyone else from losing theirs, or whomever."

She pressed her lips together and nodded. Sam could tell she was sorry she asked, was sorry she had pried. But that was done already, and the situation deserved more than a mere apology for intrusion, so she didn't bother.

"Thank you," she said instead, "Thanks for telling me. And thanks too... for doing what you do."

* * *

The big news in school centered around who were or were not invited to the upcoming sixteenth birthday party of twins Mick and Mal Tannery, two of Annie's – and Sam and Dean's too now, Sam supposed – friends.

"It's gonna be off the chain, Sammy," Mal told Sam excitedly as she handed him an invitation. It came in the form of a customized jack-in-the-box, and it was so horribly conspicuous that anyone in school could tell right away if someone was invited or not. Sam wanted to shove it into his backpack but the damn thing wouldn't fit.

"It's Sam," he muttered, even though he's long past expecting to be heard or heeded. His extremely virulent older brother was managing to infect everyone in school with calling him by the childish nickname.

"There's gonna be a deejay," Mick continued for his sister, "And old-school stuff like clowns and sexy circus freaks and fire-breathers. What did the planner say about the Bengali tiger, Mal?"

She rolled her eyes and just summarized economically, "It's gonna be fantastic. Be there."

Sam was the only freshman invited he was told, which was apparently a big deal, and his classmates kept asking to look at the stupid box and girls were asking him if he was allowed to bring a plus-one as a date.

_Date_, he thought disdainfully, because he wasn't even sure if he was going. His older brother, on the other hand, had been more open-minded; "Sounds like fun, I mean, it's free food."

"Where's your invitation?" Sam had asked him, and Dean flippantly said that he couldn't remember, and couldn't be bothered to keep track of these things.

The other big piece of news going around was about an informal poll that the less discrete classmates of Sam were not kind enough to keep him ignorant of.

This girl he barely knew popped out of the girls' bathroom right as he passed it by and grabbed him by the arm. She was lucky he was not so off-guard that he decked her by instinct; he got to check the impulse and focused instead on _why the hell _he was being pulled into the girls' bathroom and _thank god _it was empty.

"Sammy, look!" she exclaimed, giggling as she flipped open one of the stall doors in his face to show him some writing on the back.

"It's Sam-" he muttered, before he cut himself off at the sight of a question about what song you'd want to be playing while making out with Dean Winchester in the back of his bad-ass car.

His eyes raked through the words – all in squiggly girl-writing - before he could stop himself. The popular picks were _Crash Into Me_ by the Dave Matthews Band and _You Were Meant for Me _by Jewel. Sam didn't know any of these songs or even most of the others that have been written and he doubted Dean did; the only person who probably had a shot in hell of fulfilling this stupid wish list was the 'anonymous' girl who wrote down _Cherry Pie_ by Warrant at the bottom, and everyone knew who that was. She even left a cocky lipstick mark on, and god knows what sorts of germs and bacteria she had picked up from doing something like that.

"Gross!" Sam exclaimed, shaking his head and speed-walking out the door, running right into the path of Mrs. Medina. They hit each other with an _Ooof!_, and she backed away, looking first at him and then to the door of the ladies' room that he'd just come from.

"Samuel Winchester," she began, voice rising a little, "Did you just come from-"

"No," he said right away.

She frowned, considering, before she just let it go, "Forget it. I was going to seek you out but since we are both here, I have good news for you: You, your brother and Annie have the go-ahead to see the car in evidence. The DA okayed it, the detectives agreed, and so did a couple of my colleagues. It will be tomorrow during school hours, so some arrangements would have to be finalized with your teachers, but with Principal Strauss' support, we should have no problems whatsoever."

* * *

Before he and Sam intersected in high school, Dean was usually the first one out of the classroom the moment the bell rings to signal the end of the school day. This was so for a number of reasons; sheer desire for escape from academic pursuits, the need to pick his kid brother up from his own school, and to hurry off and do his real job. Ever since Sam became a freshman, though, Dean found he could take his time. Hurrying out usually meant he had to wait for Sam, who was one of those classroom-lingerers.

Sam had the tendency to wait until the bell and the teacher's official dismissal before shoving his books and notebooks into his backpack; Sam found it impolite to start packing before the teacher said goodbye, and he didn't want to miss jotting down the teacher's last-minute reminders. Dean is sure that the anal compulsions implied by this is something the kid picked up from their task-oriented father. The politeness... well god knows where that came from.

Dean was pretty sure he raised the kid, but he wondered if Sam ever picked anything up from him because Sam certainly seemed like such a different animal sometimes.

He walked down the halls to his locker, greeting the random person who passed him by. Few of them truly registered in his world: there was of course the hot chicks, the people who had been decent to him even before he and Sam categorically got into 'the in-crowd,' and Annie's jock friends who used to bully him and who were now friendly with him. Annie herself he found standing by his locker, looking agitated again.

"Hey," he greeted her; she stepped aside to give him room to shove his things and shut the door.

"Dean," she said, before going quiet and working her lip. Strangely enough, Dean wasn't unused to her awkwardness. He's been in the business long enough to recognize how normal people – no matter their age, gender or profession - had the tendency to _cling_ to him and his family in the midst of their uncertainties about the supernatural. Getting shoved into the life like she had recently been was like getting tossed into the water without knowing how to swim; you just hung onto the nearest guy who could.

"What's up?" he asked her.

"You know we've been allowed access to the trunk," she said.

"Yeah I was told about it," Dean said coolly, trying to convey to her a sense that everything was going as expected, and that things were in control, "Exactly according to plan, right?"

She nodded shortly; he suspected she rightfully had acquired some new neuroses since her kidnapping, but then again who wouldn't? It was horrifying enough to be the victim of any crime, even more to be shoved into an enclosed space with a ghost.

"You have any concerns or questions?" he asked her.

"Not... really," she admitted after a moment of thought, confirming his suspicions that this was just her, feeling like she was drowning and just hanging onto them again.

"You know," Dean told her, "One of the things you really have to understand is that you're _supposed_ to be scared. I mean, geez, who the hell do you think you are not to be? This stuff is freaky."

She chuckled nervously, "Well you sure don't seem scared."

It wasn't true, he was _always _scared and he wondered if she should know that. He was scared of failing and getting someone killed, or of disappointing his father. Worse, he was scared he'd physically lose his family if they should get hurt or killed. He was scared how he and Sam would live without their dad if anything bad happened to him while he was on his own. He was scared of his father losing his mind to this obsession. He was scared of Sam losing _his_ mind over their father losing his mind to this obsession, and then he himself being driven over the edge by the two crazies. It was like a death-spiral, how fucking terrified he was about so many things, each one feeding into the other.

"I guess I'm just cool like that," he told her instead with a twisted smirk, deciding he would treat her like Sam, because most of the time it worked.

She smiled at him, saying, "I'll see you tomorrow, Dean."

* * *

If the preparations had been done right, there is not much to do just before a hunt but get dressed, get your game face on. In the Winchester household, the preparations were almost always done right and this case was no different.

The sun rose, and one by one the three men took turns in the shower. Today though, instead of dressing for school the two teenagers dressed as they would on a job; the bulkier clothes with all the functional pockets, already lined by capped plastic test tubes of salt in lieu of salt rounds and shotguns (they were not bringing their illegal guns to the police station), and their smaller silver knives.

"Oh Dean," Sam said as he slipped on a jacket, "I told you, right? I'm gonna need a lift to that thing next week."

Dean was munching on his oatmeal, "Did dad say 'okay?'"

"Who's going where?" John asked, patting himself over and checking if any of the weapons stuck out conspicuously, "And Dean, for god's sakes, chew with your mouth cl-"

"_Julius Caesar _at the community center," Sam said, "It's for English class, I have to write a report afterwards and everything."

"What am I?" Dean sighed, "The family chauffeur? Bring me here, bring me there-"

"Well I have to go," Sam pointed out simply, "You wanna sit with me and watch?"

"What time do you want me to drop you off again?"

The three men soon took John's truck and drove over to the police station. They were led to a conference room where Vaughn, Diamond, the Huntingtons, Mrs. Medina, and a couple of other people they didn't know were already waiting.

"It looks like a party," Dean said under his breath to Sam, who elbowed him to keep silent. They both nodded at Annie, who looked like she was ready to explode. Her eyes were wide, and she was shifting her weight from foot to foot. In many ways, Sam now recognized that in the end, despite the danger to her, this simply had to be done. If not for Linda Carin's peace, then at least for Annie's.

"Mr. Winchester," Vaughn greeted them, "Boys."

"You know the Huntingtons," Diamond said, "And Mrs. Medina from your school. For today's trip we are joined by District Attorney Tam for the government and Attorney Edison representing the defendant, observing. And we also have officers Cannon and Arnott from the crime lab to keep the integrity of the evidence."

"Just to set a couple of ground rules," Vaughn explained, "The only person of all of us allowed to go near the car and to touch it are the crime lab and Annie, all of whom will be in regulation protective gear to ensure that the evidence will not be contaminated. Our only access is to the trunk, when Annie steps inside. The rest of the car is off limits to today's inspection. Are there any -"

"No questions," Annie said quickly, "I'm ready, I'm ready, let's please just get this over with."

* * *

The group walked out of the conference room and past neat but intricate ways of halls and offices, down to the basement, where there was a large storage warehouse / workroom. Annie had magnetized toward John Winchester as they walked, painstakingly matching his pace, sidling closer, seeking some wordless reassurance that she could find only in his purposeful strides. This was usually Dean's spot, because it was usually Dean's need, but he understood the feeling profoundly and gave her the room.

They turned a corner and then suddenly - _just like that! - _the car was there, grimed from her dip in the lake, but still distinct and white and strangely menacing.

The room was dimly illuminated by flat white lights overhead, but the car was the star of this demented showroom, practically glowing from the focus of industrial-sized spotlights on standees around it. These were apparently there to help the CSIs work, but with the car just idly sitting there, the lights now made the whole scene look like a macabre still-life.

The observers were led to one end of the room, near the wall and about ten feet away from the trunk of the car. Annie was taken in hand by the crime scene investigators, who gave her a plastic jumpsuit to wear over her street clothes, a hairnet and a shower cap for her head, a mask, and gloves. Everything was several sizes too big, and Dean thought she looked like a little girl borrowing _big-person-clothes_ (something Sammy had said to him long, long ago, when he first slipped into his father's leather jacket as a kid). They also wired her up with a hands-free radio, and instructed her to tell them right away if she wanted to be pulled out or if she needed anything else.

Everyone was silent as she finally made her way to the trunk. She paused before it, taking a deep breath that she couldn't seem to be able to exhale as her body froze and trembled.

"Annie...?" her father called out from behind her, "Honey if you don't want to do this, you don't have to."

"No one's gonna say that you didn't try," Dean told her quietly, echoing his father's own words, just days ago. He knew the statement caught his father's ear, but more importantly, it caught Annie's.

She turned to face him, and her shoulders squared, before she turned her back on them again and she lowered herself into the trunk, carefully. She sat down, and then swung her legs in. She was shaking a little as she laid down on her side and curled a little, back to the deeper interior of the trunk. Her eyes – stormy, fearful, determined – were set on Dean's when the officer closed the trunk and cut them off with a thick, final _thud_.

* * *

John looked at his watch; it was 10:05 in the morning, and all protocol be damned, if something didn't feel right he was pulling that girl out of there in five. He noticed that Sam, standing to his left, had done the same thing and marked the time. Dean, on his other side, lowered his stance like he was ready to spring forward at a signal from his father.

For a long moment all was quiet, just before they heard a loud _thunk_! from the trunk, and the car shook a little. Jed shot forward first, his daughter's name already on his lips. He was held back by Diamond, who'd strategically stood beside him.

"Let me go!" he growled at the detective.

Diamond didn't, and just looked at his partner expectantly. Vaughn pressed a radio to his mouth, calling out to Annie - "Annie? This is Detective Vaughn, you doing okay over there?" Silence, and the cackling of the radio, "Annie? If you don't respond we'd have to pull you out-"

"I'm fine," came the terse, shaky reply. The reception was bad, and this was something expected with the spirit activity wrecking havoc on the signal, "Just... got startled there for a s-."

"Who are you talking t-" a smaller, and even shakier voice cut her statement in from the background, and that was the most John could make out before the line broke off completely, with a loud wail that had Vaughn tearing the piece away from his face.

"What the hell was that...?" he murmured before he could think, eyes shooting up to Diamond.

John's heart started to beat faster. The ghost was in there with Annie; the voice on the radio and the disrupted signal assured it. This was, of course, the expected part. What would happen now was the larger, more important question.

"Comm link's cut," Vaughn said after trying the radio again, several times. "We can't know if she's in trouble. Get her out."

"Get her out," Margie echoed, hand gripping her husband's arm.

One of the gloved crime scene investigators headed for the trunk, tried to gently pop it open out of deference to the evidence. He touched the lever and stepped back, inexplicably startled.

"Damn thing is cold," he muttered before trying it it once, twice, and in failing, neatly sidestepped away from the car and having the other investigator try it. This one tried opening the trunk with more force, but the thing just would. not. budge.

"Getherout, getherout, getherout," Margie started chanting.

"I can do it!" Jed growled, jerking in Diamond's determined hold.

"Dad?" Sam looked up at his father, and John could feel both his stare as well as Dean's. "Dad?" he pressed.

John weighed his options; there was an ax mounted on the wall along with a fire extinguisher a couple of feet away from them, though he doubted it would be much use if the trunk was on supernatural lockdown.

"The crack in the taillights," John barked at the cops, "Check on her."

One of the officers kept trying to pop the trunk, while the other one leaned over and yelled into the small hole, "Annie? Annie? You all right in there? You gotta give us a sign here-"

Gloved, shaking fingers wiggled out of the hole, and the CSI officer gripped them tightly in reassurance.

"We're getting you out, all right?" the man told her, "Just give us a sec and we'll get you out. Something's up with the latch, maybe some corrosion, maybe something else, but we're getting you out. Just calm down, all right? Squeeze my hand once if you understand."

The fingers gripped his tightly in the affirmative, before releasing.

"Okay," the man said, exhaling a breath, letting her go too and looking up at everyone else, "She seems okay, we're still good."

The two CSIs stepped away from the car, tried to weigh their options. How were they supposed to get her out without damaging the car to the extent that it could not be used in court?

Suddenly, they heard a low-register click, followed by a squeak as Annie herself pulled the trunk open from inside the car, just as she had the first time she was stuck in there. She pulled it wide open, gasping as if coming from underwater, leaping out of the trunk and onto the ground, on all fours.

The moment she was out, all hell broke loose with her. Her parents shot forward to catch her. For the Winchesters – who knew to look – a translucent gust of energy emerged from the trunk behind her, taking to the air. The overhead lights and the spotlights burned intensely bright for one long second before the bulbs exploded and the lights fizzled out, leaving the basement warehouse in pitch black that was also suddenly eerily and unnaturally cold.

And then just like that, all was quiet, save for the muffled rasping breaths of Annie, held by Jed and Margie. When the emergency lights came on, bathing the room in muted blue light, John found the Huntingtons holding onto each other on the ground, the cops and lawyers wide-eyed and confused, and his two sons crouched low, eyes alert, fearless and ready for anything.

* * *

No one could (or in the case of the Winchesters, _would) _explain what had happened, but the electricity had shorted in the evidence storage room, all of their charged electronic equipment - particularly cellular phones - had been sapped completely of power, and the room had been plunged into a freezing temperature for a few minutes after Annie freed herself from the car.

She was shaky but unhurt, allowed to go home after a brief statement saying that even after reliving the experience, she could recall nothing but what she had already told the cops in her initial statement.

As they all walked to their respective cars to head home, she pulled herself from her parents' side and stopped before the Winchesters as they were about to board their truck.

"It was Linda Carin," she told them, voice low, eyes watering, "And... and she never tried to hurt me. I never had to use the stuff you gave. She really was just a scared girl."

"You did good, Annie," Sam encouraged her.

"I couldn't find out anything else," she went on, "She didn't know anything, she never knew what hit her before waking in the trunk. She never knew. She was so scared, and I couldn't do anything else for her. I just... I just told her we'd get out. I told her I knew how. I told her I'd open the trunk, and she'd see a brilliant light, and all she had to do was jump out with me.

She stared at John's face, searching, "You think she did, don't you, Mr. Winchester? That's what all the lights and the cold meant? She jumped out into the light with me?"

John pressed his lips together and nodded, "Yeah. I think she did."

Her eyes released the tears weighed by them, and her face crumbled into a relieved, laughing sob. She pressed her hands to her face.

"You're both out now," John told her soothingly, "You did what you had to for her. Now you leave solving her murder to the cops and move on. You got the rest of your life ahead of you."

TO BE CONTINUED...

... where maybe the rest of her life isn't that much ahead of her after all, and the Winchester luck rears its ugly head yet again as we find out why Dean never got to finish high shcool.

'Til the next post!


	10. Chapter 10

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**!

Oh oh oh, this is posted so incredibly late from what I thought I could do... and it's not in it's best form either, but I've just been out-of-breath lately and I think it's about time I got this up here... thanks to all who read and alert-ed and favorite-d and especially ESPECIALLY all who reviewed the last installment of _Less Traveled By_. I hope I still have your interest, and I sincerely hope that you'd let me know if I have totally gone off my rocker for good this time with this new chapter. C & c's are hungered for and cherished, and in a couple of days I will be in a better position to respond properly to your thoughts and queries. In the meantime, here is Chapter 10:

**

* * *

**

Less Traveled By

10: Whiplash

_1997_

* * *

It's theoretically strange, how life shifts back and forth between the natural and the supernatural for them, sometimes as seamlessly as the shift from day to night and back again.

Sam recognized that it was easier for him and his family than it was for most people, for whom he imagined that the sensation would be a lot like whiplash, the sudden change in momentum or direction, this sudden difference in one's understanding of the world even as you are shoved right back into the normal from which you came.

He thinks about this on his first afternoon back in school after Annie talked Linda Carin's ghost 'into the light', as he watched the older girl. Annie was sitting on the outdoor bleachers with a couple of her friends, watching as their other friends practiced cheer leading or playing football. The people around her were laughing, goading each other, and they had a boom box that was playing alternative music at a low volume. She looked amused by the company she was keeping, but also quiet and a little detached.

Annie spotted him and excused herself from her friends, who had waved at Sam enthusiastically in greeting and invitation. They looked so golden sitting there, he thought, all aglow in the late afternoon sun with their nice clothes and their expensive things scattered meaninglessly around them, laughing and calling him over. It made for a hell of a photograph, he thought, and it was tempting in so many ways, but he just smiled at them brightly and shook his head. He waited as Annie jogged toward him.

"Hey Sam," she greeted him breathlessly.

"Annie," he greeted, "You okay?"

She smiled a little at that, and her eyes warmed. "Yeah... you know what? I am. I know Linda Carin's body is still out there, and legally this thing is still wide open, but I find that I can live with that. It's a weird feeling, like I've done my part. Is this how you guys feel all the time?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Sam confessed.

"_Accomplished_," she replied, looking exhilarated, "Like you did something right."

Sam frowned. Weirdly enough, he found that the answer was a 'no,' even as he understood why she would feel that way. The strange question though, was, _why didn't he_?

"Well you've been at it since forever," she said, laughing a little in embarrassment, "This must be like a walk in the park for you, just another day in the life of a hero."

His cheeks warmed at that, "Not really."

She waved at his response flippantly, "Say what you want, but I know better. I know _I _feel like superman right now. Unless... is this me being an idiot? Should I be scared instead? You and your brother said, that there are other things out there."

"There are," Sam conceded, "And in some instances, after you've been exposed to the supernatural once, you'll be more sensitive to other occurrences, like an opened eye, you know? But for most people, one exposure to supernatural activity is a lot in a lifetime. As a matter of fact, most people live and die never knowing something else is going on out there. The likelihood of you going through another paranormal experience is so low, that people like me and my family? We actually have to actively research, track, and hunt these instances down to put a stop to them. So statistically speaking, you shouldn't be too scared."

"Once in a lifetime _is _enough," she commented, "Although I don't know. This is your dad's real job, and what you and Dean do when you're not at school. I don't know how you do it."

"We try," Sam said wryly, "It doesn't always pan out. We've had to move around a lot, me and Dean have to do without our dad a lot, and we fight harder than anyone else to get the grades we get. Or scratch that; at least... well _I_ do. Dean just coasts."

They both laughed a little at that.

"It's not easy," Sam went on, "We miss school, we miss connections with people, we miss extracurriculars, we miss... _a lot_."

"But it must be rewarding," she pointed out.

"Are you telling me this is a valid career option?" Sam joked.

"I can raise it with our guidance councilor, Mrs. Medina," she laughed, "What college course do I have to take to get to do this?"

"Are my SAT scores high enough?" Sam joined in, before he turned somber, looking out at the sun-drenched school field and thinking about how alien it all felt, even as he stood right in the middle of it.

"We got into this because of mom," he said quietly, "We'll keep at it until we kill what got her. Dad says that's when we'll stop. But... but I don't think he can stop. And Dean... well, I'm not sure he thinks he's good at anything else."

"He'd be wrong," Annie said with absolute certainty, "He's amazing, your brother."

Her conviction caught Sam a little off-guard, and he looked at her contemplatively before saying, "Don't tell him. He's vain enough already. Speaking of... I went out here 'cos he left a note at my locker saying that he's running a little late this afternoon. Have you seen him?"

"If what I've been hearing is true," she said wryly, "Janitor's closet by the gym. I wouldn't be surprised if he lost track of time in there."

"Gross," Sam moaned, knowing perfectly well about Dean's affinity for any school's janitor's closet and whatever else went on in there.

"Why don't you hang out with us for a bit?" she asked.

"I guess I can," he said, looking at the pretty sunset picture again. It looked like an advertisement for a pricey American sportswear company: _Be one of us_.

"So there's just one more thing I have to ask," Annie told him as they walked toward their friends, "What _does_ happen in your house, when the door closes? What part of the story am I missing?"

"My dad gets home from work," Sam told her simply, "My brother cooks us dinner and helps me with my homework. We eat together. When we're not on a hunt, that's it."

"Weird," she murmured thoughtfully, making him laugh.

* * *

"So my mom's being embarrassing again," Annie says to Dean over lunch one day in school, "And she's nagging me about having your family over for dinner. She wants to discuss plans for this party she's throwing for you and Sam."

Dean groaned, "Man, I remember she was talking about it when I was in the hospital. I thought that was just a nightmare."

"Margie throws the best parties," Ashley commented as she munched on a celery stick, "And she makes sure that only the right people come."

"As opposed to the wrong people," Dean snorted, "Who would be...?"

"I got an internship last summer after I met Congressman Reedley at one of Mrs. Huntington's parties," Cherry said brightly.

"You got an internship with a Congressman?" Dean asked her in surprise, before he could check the judgment and stop himself.

"What?" she asked, blinking at him. It was all... not so much innocence but emptiness in her eyes sometimes, and god knew he was interested in her for... well, _not necessarily_ for traditional smarts although she had her own brand of intelligence after all.

"Yeah Dean, what?" Annie asked, her eyes dancing, daring him to say that Cherry wasn't particularly known for her brains.

"I happen to have the IQ of a genius," Cherry said over people's chortling laughter, "I just save using it for the important stuff. Like... congress stuff."

"Atta-girl," Dean said magnanimously, "You go get them."

"It's really not a bad idea," Ashley resumed her case, "And you know, we're applying for college now and everything so it's good to know the type of people that the Huntingtons know. Not just for you, but for all of us. I mean we're invited too, right?"

"Of course you are," Annie said, "Dean, come on, I just need her off my back. Have dinner with us, and tell her 'no' yourself."

"Good luck with that," Mick snorted at him, "I don't think Margie even knows what that means, for a smart lady."

"Can't you just do it for me?" Dean asked, "I don't do parents very well."

"My dad wants to marry you," Annie countered, "Go figure. Come on, it's just dinner. You, Sam, your dad, and me and my folks. Please, Dean. _Please _get her off my back."

"And on mine?" Dean whined.

"Exactly," she brightened.

"I mean you never turn down free food anyway," Cherry said nonchalantly, pursing her lips and studying her nails, _speaking of being judgmental_. _Maybe she is as smart as she claims_, Dean thought darkly, _Karma is a bitch_.

"I do too," Dean scowled, "Fine."

"Saturday night?" Annie asked.

"My party's on Saturday," Mal complained, indignant.

"_Our _party, sister," Mick corrected her, "_Our _party."

"We'll have an early dinner and then you, Sam and I can go to the twins' party together," Annie resolved, pressing, "You wouldn't even have to drive there so it makes sense, right, Dean? I'll bring you and Sam home after."

"Why did I have to be twins," Mal sighed.

"I ask myself the same thing every-"

"Yes, yes," Dean said over the unproductive din of usually useless lunchtime conversation, "Dad might not go for it but god, if I have to suffer, he'd better come with."

"All this hero-worship must be so tedious," Annie mocked him, slighted by the harshness of his resignation, "I mean, really, how hard could it be to show some thanks around here?"

"It's not that," he said, embarrassed and a little bit more contrite as he chewed at his food, "And you know it. We're kind of private."

"What?" Mick guffawed, "Got bodies in the basement and monsters in the closet, Winchester?"

Dean choked on his food, and felt Annie's hands pounding his back half-heartedly.

* * *

"Get your nose out of that book and eat with your old man, will ya?"

Sam ignores him for a full minute, and his gaze traveled quick from left to right before doing as instructed, as if he just really _really _needed to finish a sentence before turning to his father.

"No thanks, dad, I'm full."

John had come home late from working a contract job at an auto shop so the boys had already eaten by the time he got back. Dean reheated some of the food for him, and sat down and munched on some chocolate to keep him company. Sam did the same in his own way, moving his reading from the bed to the table.

The youngest Winchester lowered the book and looked at his father attentively, expecting him to initiate the conversation. It seemed inhumanly rational in the sense that it was the silent version of _You told me to drop the book, so now – amuse me_.

"So dad," Dean rescues them both, consciously or not, "I was talking to Annie today, and her mom and dad are inviting us over for dinner at their house. You down? It's this Saturday, pretty low-key, just their family and ours. I told her it's not really your thing but I gotta ask, you know?"

John's eyes narrowed at his eldest in consideration. The kid was already waiting for a 'no' even as he was asking, and this is what gave John some pause, the negative preemption.

"I could go."

"That's what I told—" Dean was saying, before realizing what his father said and cutting himself off, "Wait, what? You'd go?"

John watched Dean's resignation shift to wary optimism. Dean's reaction made John feel a little strange, like he'd been... _underestimated_. The word felt foul in his mind; he didn't like being underestimated, least of all by Dean who's shiny-eyed admiration was something he was more used to. He realized that the kid may admire him generally as a hunter and a father, but he seldom complained about domestic issues partly because he grew to expect less of John in that arena. He didn't know what hurt more, Sam's open antagonism for his failures to do what is expected of him, or Dean's not expecting anything of him at all.

"Yeah, I'd go," John said, as nonchalantly as he could, trying not to make a big deal of things because it was just a matter of time before one of his two perceptive sons picked up on him being upset by it.

"You sick or something, dad?" Sam asked him, only half-in-jest.

"It'll be great," Dean brightened, "Oh, and Sam and I have this party to go to after dinner. We'll ride with Annie, and she'll just drop us off at home after that."

"Decent hour," John insisted.

"Always," Dean told his father indignantly, making him snort in response.

"No funny business," John reminded him, "You got your brother along."

"When did that ever stop him," Sam sighed melodramatically.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said, grinning cheekily.

* * *

Come Saturday, Dean is the first one dressed, already feeling the pull of what he imagined would be one heck of a dinner. He thought about the Huntington's insanely long table, lined end to end to end with food as he tied his shoelaces. He felt consumed by the idea, and realized he hasn't really been eating well since being hospitalized. Tonight was going to be _fantastic-_

"Huh," Sam sounded impressed, so Dean lifted his head up to look at their father, who just stepped out of the shower. His jaw dropped.

"That's what you look like under all that," Sam said, "I almost forgot."

John threw his son a rakish grin, and he looked like he lost ten years off of his face when he shaved cleanly.

"Geez, dad," Dean breathed, "You look _good_."

"Don't sound so surprised," John told him, "I'm not a complete Neanderthal. These good people invite you to their house, you show up decent."

"Like a vampire," Dean smirked, "You have to look attractive like that, otherwise they won't ask you in."

"Vampires aren't real," Sam corrected him.

"It's a joke, geek-boy," Dean snapped, looking over at his father and Sam, who was wearing a pressed, collared shirt. "You two look like you're going to a Sunday service. You two... look like you're in costume for a job. I didn't get the memo. Should I change? Should I bring my 'bikini inspector' badge?"

"You look fine, Dean," Sam told him, looking over the weathered flannels and the graphic band shirt, "Even if you didn't, Annie knows who we are, she won't care. You can come in a dress if you wanted, it won't matter."

"Yeah well I don't wanna look like the family doofus," Dean said, already shaking off the flannel button-down and ransacking his duffel, "That's your spot."

Sam laughed at him, straightened his posture and his collar. His younger brother was looking up at their father with something Dean hasn't seen in awhile, like being around him made the kid stand taller. This made Dean feel something _he _hasn't felt in awhile too – jealousy.

_Yeah right_! he thought indignantly, before he... didn't. Wasn't it fair, that he should covet his kid brother's admiration? He sure as hell worked harder on it than their father.

He changed to a collared cotton shirt, tucked it in neatly and wore a belt and everything. He looked like a caricature of himself, but then again so did the rest of his family, which is ultimately what mattered, that he had a sense of solidarity and confidence standing with them. He had a sneaking suspicion he'd still feel good wearing a banana-costume if it was what his father and brother were wearing, and anyway these decent-people-clothes came pretty damn close.

_Banana_, his mind drifted, making his stomach growl. Bananas were awesome in pies with worked-up, puffy cream and with bits of graham and brown sugar...

"I'm hungry," he growled at his family, "Let's go."

* * *

There were a lot of mirrors in Annie's house, Sam thought, and he sure found himself looking at them and liking what he saw, anytime he passed by with his father and brother alongside of him.

The Huntingtons welcomed them right at the door, Jed with his violent warmth, Margie with her semi-deluded grace and Annie for all of her embarrassed pleasure.

His father surprised him by actually bringing along a bottle of wine for their hosts, and of course his first instinct was to wonder why John Winchester would find the need to bring along a Molotov cocktail and if he should have brought along a weapon too. On second thought though, of all the things one can fault their dad for, it wasn't for lack of commitment in the things he dropped his word onto. Apparently, this extended past vengeance for his wife and hunts and the marine code to dinner parties.

"Oh John, _vino_," Margie said delightedly, "How wonderful. And I do not know how open-minded you are about all of this, but I don't mind sharing a bit with the kids, minors they may be. It's good for the health, and we are celebrating."

"No, I don't mind," he told her with an easy smile. Sam could have answered that for him though, as he thought of the much-harder liquor he and Dean have taken down once in awhile all these years as painkillers or as applied on wounds in the course of hunting. If the lady only knew...

They walked on toward the dining room, John flanked by the two adults and Annie walking with Sam and Dean. He heard his older brother release a bit of a squawking sound at the sight of the formal table all decked out, like maybe there were fifty more people coming in for dinner.

Dean's eyes rove over everything and his gaze wore that dreamy sheen that Sam had seen applied only when he was caught with an issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_. Sam then transferred his attention to Annie, who was looking at Dean's face with this goofy grin on, her eyes all crinkly and warm and open and... _oh god_, he realized with a sinking stomach. He's seen that look from a girl on his brother before.

_He's amazing, your brother..._

Annie felt Sam looking at her and so their eyes met, before she quickly (_and guiltily)_ averted her gaze. Her cheeks went flush-red, and she could not look at Sam all throughout dinner, knowing she'd been discovered.

* * *

Along the course of the meal, the Huntingtons realized the Winchester fascination for weaponry, and brought them along on a loose tour of some of the collections in the house. John trailed after Jed and Margie patiently, and Dean trailed their father with equal interest. Sam lagged a little, more interested in the pieces of art and books that they passed.

Annie fell into step beside him.

Sam groaned inwardly, feeling embarrassed for her and not necessarily wanting to be here dealing with it.

"I won't make this any weirder than it has to be," she told him, voice low to keep from being heard by anyone else but Sam, "I guess you know... not that I hide it very well... but I think your brother is-"

"-amazing," Sam finished for her, "I know, Annie, I got it."

"I mean, how couldn't I?" she murmured, "Everyone thinks so."

Sam rolled back his eyes tried to make it a joke, "Even he thinks so."

"Even _you_ think so," she pointed out honestly, keeping things serious.

"Annie," he exhaled heavily, "What are you telling me this for? What do you want?"

Sam wasn't unused to girls asking him things about his brother, or saying no to them asking for his help to win him. It was _Don Juan_'s kid-brother's lot in life, he was told. But for some reason he could not explain, he had hoped Annie would be exempt from that, to be more than just another girl who liked Dean. She had grown to become a friend, and someone who actually knew what they were and respected them for it. Sam really didn't want things to change.

"That's just it," she said fondly, eyes warming again, "I don't want anything. Please don't say anything to him, don't do anything. He'd have done something by now if he felt the same way. I'm smart enough to know I'm crushing on him – _bad_ – and I know when I'm out of my league."

Sam thought it was strange, how they were standing in her museum of a house and she thought she was out of _Dean's _league.

She laughed nervously, pushed her hair back behind her ears, "I don't want anything from either of you more than what you've already given. No one can give me more, you know? Right now I like him just 'cos I can't not. I don't expect anything, I don't want anything. I'm just standing around, admiring the show. I'm a teenage girl," she smirked at him, "I'll get over it."

"You're a teenage girl," he echoed with a grin of his own, "You won't."

She laughed, and this Dean did hear. From paces in front of them, he turned to look their way, brow already raising at his younger brother in pointed inquiry.

Sam just shook his head at him and waved him away.

* * *

While Dean never thought he'd ever fallen short on admiring his father, there were a couple of things about him that Dean realized he'd never had a chance to aspire to until now.

It was how John Winchester looked in decent clothes and with a clean-shaven face. It was how he'd thought to bring good wine for their hosts, and _god_ how he made it look so easy to return Margie Huntington's air-kisses when she greeted them at the door. He did clever conversation, wary but undoubtedly engaged. He seemed so relaxed and urbane, smiling that small smile of his with the shining eyes.

Their occasionally ogre-rific father, Dean belatedly realized, had been normal once, had once had all these things come to him like second-nature, like it was so easy, things he never had to think about. Their father lived a normal life before he lived this one, in the dark.

Dean thought about all these things as they ate, and then again as he trailed his father who politely bore their eager hosts' impromptu weapons tour and even pretended not to know some of the things they were telling him about. He was still thinking it when they all ended up in the Huntingtons' library, and his father had a cigar clamped between his teeth that Jed was lighting it up, with Margie handing them glasses of gleaming, amber brandy. Dean wondered if he'd look that cool when he grew older-

"Hey, Dean?" Annie called, breaking into his thoughts, "We gotta go to the Tannery twins' thing now."

He blinked at her, before remembering, "Oh. Right. Party, I almost forgot." he turned to his father, "You good here, dad?"

His father's eyes crinkled and he smiled, like he thought the question was crazy. Dean blushed, catching himself. He just didn't like leaving his family behind, plushy though the circumstances may be.

"Be good, kids," he said.

"Thank you so much for the wonderful dinner, Mr. And Mrs. Huntington," Sam told them.

"It was awesome!" Dean said more effusively.

Jed gave the boys hearty handshakes, and Margie gave her regulation air-kisses which Dean thought he was quite frankly really getting better at.

"Daniel should be right up front by now," Annie said, leading the way out the room. The three teenagers walked side by side to the main hall, leaving the adults in the room behind them.

"No kidding, Annie, dinner was great," Dean told her, "Thanks for having us."

She smiled brightly at him, "And it was nice watching my mom and your dad tango around this party-idea of hers. I've never seen anyone who can say 'no' to her and not piss her off. Your dad is something."

"Yeah," Dean grinned, glancing behind him at the closed door of the study, as if he could still see the man inside, all cool with his cigar and his brandy.

Sam pulled the doors open for them and sure enough, the BMW was on the rotunda with the motor running.

"I can get used to this," Dean smirked, as the three teenagers stepped out of the house. Annie locked the door behind her, as Dean pulled open the one for the backseat of the car. Sam was going to step inside, fairly used to Dean's service, until Dean yanked him back by the collar.

He yelped, "Dean!"

"Ladies' first, kiddo," he teased Sam, even as he looked like he knew Sam would be taking the bait, "Didn't I ever teach you anything?"

"You're a bully!" Sam exclaimed, "Mark my word, Dean – next witch we come across gets amnesty if she can make it so that every inch of height I grow she'll take from you."

Annie laughed as she lowered herself into the car and settled on the far end to make room for the two boys.

"Dream on, Sammy!" Dean told his brother, plying his arm around the kid's neck and pulling him close, ruffling his hair. Sam growled at him, struggled some but otherwise let him do what he wanted. They were all in good spirits, and if Sam had been more serious about wanting freedom, he'd have kicked Dean in the shin-

"Ow!" Dean cried out when Sam gave him a little 'love-tap.' He started hopping around to diffuse the sting, heard Sam hooting triumphantly in the background.

It's in the middle of all this – and life really can just be random like that sometimes – that he notices something anomalous.

The tinting of the car windows were heavy, and the lights on the outside pretty much meant that one would see more of one's reflection on the glass than through to the interior of the car. But Dean spotted enough of the driver to know that – intricate forearm tattoo and gloved hands on the wheel and all –

It wasn't Daniel, the family chauffeur, in there.

* * *

His older brother's tone changed, and there was no doubt in Sam's head that there was something going on because it takes a lifetime of instinct enriched by practice for him to realize that Dean had picked up on something.

"Hey squirt," Dean said, "I forgot to grab some money from dad. You think you can hop on over there and ask the old man for a twenty?"

Sam blinked at him, and picked up how Dean had stayed outside the car and turned his back on the driver's side, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the direction behind him.

"I'd need the keys to the house," Sam told him warily.

"Annie, would you get out here and-" Dean was saying, until he saw the keys take to the air, Annie having tossed it at them. Sam caught the keys by instinct, looking a little stunned.

"You can go on in and just come back out," she said from inside the car, "Let me just call Mal and say we're running a little late. I'm telling you though; you won't need to bring any money there."

_Go_, Sam watched Dean mouth at him, and he gave his older brother a quick nod, turning his back on them and heading for the door. His hands didn't shake as he put the key in the lock. He kept the doors wide open behind him and speed-walked back into the study where the adults were. If Dean wanted to pretend they didn't know anything was going on, he would play along.

He started running once he felt he was sufficiently out of view. But _god_, the house didn't feel this damned huge when they were walking through it earlier. _Why the hell did everything have to be so far?_

* * *

Dean wracked his brain about this one. So someone was still trying to kidnap Annie... did it mean that Marcus Tenet has an accomplice after all? Or did it mean he was innocent? But what about the Linda Carin connection? What did one have to do with the other...?

He shook off the thoughts; the answers will come later. The only thing he had to bother with now was how to keep Annie safe. As far as he knew, the driver – whoever the hell he was – didn't know just yet that Dean had been alerted to the fact that he wasn't Daniel. He had to keep that up as long as possible, especially since Annie was obliviously inside the goddamn car with that nameless, faceless bastard.

Sam had left the door to the house open behind him, and for a fleeting moment Dean allowed himself the luxury of remembering that his kid brother really was whip-smart. The unlocked house was now a place they could run to for safety. What he had to figure out now was how to get Annie out of the car. That they started with this problem and were now back here again, was a sucky part of his life that he had no current or future plans of further contemplating.

He glanced back at the house, hoping against hope that their father was on his way, or that someone had already called the cops. Sam was fast running toward the adults, Dean knew, but the goddamn house was too big and everything too far. If the guy behind the wheel felt impatient, or even remotely suspected that Dean was onto him, he could just rev the engine and hit the gas and spirit Annie Huntington away from all of them.

Sure enough, the car purred a little, almost as if the guy inside was warming up-

_Waitaminute, _Dean suddenly thought, _If I can't get Annie off the car, maybe I can pull the guy out and away from her_.

He discreetly glanced at the driver's window again; unlocked, as he had hoped. It was either the man was careless, or – and this one would be bad – he thought like a professional and always had an exit strategy.

_That's okay,_ Dean told himself, he was a pro too, after all. He gripped the hilt of his trusty hunter's knife, hidden but never inaccessible in the folds of his clothes, always near, always close to his skin. He steeled himself carefully, finding the proper posture, the proper timing...

He wrenched open the car door with his left hand, and dragged the driver outside with his right. The would-be kidnapper fell to a mess of arms and legs on the ground. Dean's knife was pressed against his neck before the guy knew up from down.

"Dean!" Annie exclaimed, leaning out from inside the car, "What do you think you're-"

"Get back in the house!" Dean told her, steady gaze not leaving the man he was holding.

"Th-that's not-" she stammered.

"Now, Annie!" Dean bellowed, before turning to the man on the ground, who was looking up at Dean venomously, "Who are you?"

It wasn't surprising that Annie would stick around and listen for an answer to that one. Dean could feel her standing behind him.

The man tilted his head at Dean in curiosity. "You've been getting in my way a lot, kid."

"Who are you?" Dean pressed, "What do you want?"

"Was it you who killed Linda Carin?" Annie added, moving forward, "Where is she? What did you do to her?" Dean used his shoulder to push her back, never tearing his eyes away from the man on the ground or releasing the pressure of his knife against the man's neck.

"Annie, for god's sake-" he muttered at her.

"And what did you do to Daniel?" Annie went on, "Where is he?"

The man just smiled at them sickly, and Dean had a feeling he knew what that meant; so did Annie. She ran to the car trunk.

"Annie, you don't know what's back th-" Dean told her, instinctively turning in her direction before he could stop himself. It was just a glance away, one blink in an eternity of them, one moment, one _mistake_.

But one moment is the world.

It's the random lottery pick the guy in front of you in line yesterday won the million dollars today for, it's love at first sight, it's the plane you missed that crashed... or the one you caught. It's the bell that saves you, or the bite of the bullet that finds and sinks into your flesh, so small and so terrible, meeting its mark, missing others, a blip in the world but tearing into time and space and flesh, leaving large impressions in its wake.

He'd glanced away, that was all, and that was also all it took for the man on the ground to find his gun and his aim and, unquestionably... _Dean_.

The young hunter fell with a graceless grunt to the ground, open-mouth, surprised, disappointed, because it struck him how arrogant he'd been that he could be exempt from all this, all the random cruelties of the world.

He'd been a hunter since childhood, and this meant he was a warrior. He had purpose, he had plans, and those that came after him and his family tended to be the same. There was a larger picture that went beyond crime and kidnapping and perversion and all the other sick things people did to each other. Within that larger picture, he had a kid brother to protect, a father to back up, a mother to avenge, monsters to slay, the restless to bring to peace. The natural world as most people knew and understood it was not his battleground, so in many ways, he supposed he'd forgotten that he lived in it. The rules here - where they existed - weren't as clear to him.

You cannot tell the good from the bad by how they reacted to light, or silver, or iron, or salt, or holy water, or holy words, or wards, or spells. You cannot banish evil with the same. You cannot just lay a line you know with certainty that evil cannot cross, and you cannot have predictable safe shelters. Some people were good, others evil, but most fell in the indistinguishable in-between.

In the supernatural world, he was a hero; he owned the moonlight and the long roads and went into all the dark places no one else dared go. In the light of the natural world, he was a kid with more scars than money, no past, no future. In the natural world, he was just a stupid idiot with a hero-complex who'd brought a knife to a gunfight and lost.

He laid on the ground, body twitching. He felt like someone had whacked him on the chest with lightning, but that was the closest he could get to some estimation of where he'd been hit and how baldy. What he knew for certain was that he was trying to get up but could not. He was trying to breathe but could not. He was trying to swing at who had harmed him but could not. Could not. Could not-

Because he was on fire; all her angry licks taking him from his chest going out, the vile spread of her eating him alive.

There was a fire, and it had taken his mother, and it was going to take him too.

It was a deep, angry burn on his chest, and he never thought he could tell the shape of his heart by how that sensation of heat surrounded it, went around it, shaped it. He tried to move, but everything outward of his chest felt barely-attached, like they've long already turned to ash, crumbling away from the rest of him with every jerk of his body. The crumbling started from his feet, where he knew he'd kicked and then suddenly they felt cold and the sensation of them kind of just splintered away, and he could no longer feel them. The same had become of his hands, he'd fucking lost them. And then from there the cold and the turning into ash crawled up his legs and up his arms. He could feel himself returning to the cold, cold earth, just like the dead, becoming a part of the ground.

He stared up at the moon, all stoic like it's his business seeing sad shit like this everyday; one more kid on the ground, dying from every conceivable direction because he was burning from within and freezing from without. His chest burned, his limbs turned to ice. His lips felt thick but also numb, and he cussed at the moon, staring down at him-

A shadow blocked his view, and even in his most un-lucid, it was in the shape of a man.

"Keep getting in the goddamned way," the man muttered at Dean, raising the shadow of one more thing that Dean recognized even in his most dim awareness. It was a goddamned gun, and though he'd always been around them, this was strangely enough, the first time he'd ever looked down along it's business-end.

Speaking of inanimate things staring at you... that barrel sure had a cold, dead eye. It'd win a staring game by a mile-

_I don't wanna d-ie_-!

One panicked but lucid thought. Again, he really could just be a normal kid scared and bleeding on the ground even if sometimes he forgot he lived in this world.

"No!" someone yelled.

The man pulled the trigger, but Dean did not feel a bullet's bite, this time.

What he felt was a warm body over his own, because yeah, one moment is the world, the bite of the bullet that finds and sinks into your flesh... or someone else's.

So small and so terrible, meeting its mark (_her_), missing others (_me)_, a blip in the world tearing into time and space and flesh, and - goddamnitt, his soul - leaving large impressions in its wake.

Annie had jumped in the way, he knew that much and that was all, and that was also all it took for her to die and for Dean to live. She slumped heavily over him, head on his chest and face turned toward his. The gaze that met his was like that gun barrel, cold and dead. It'd win a staring game by a mile.

Because she'd left him in the dust and she was far, far gone.

* * *

Sam pushed the doors to the library open and yelled - "Dad, there's someone outside trying to kidnap Annie!"

"Call the cops!" John barked to Annie and Jed, as he started running purposefully the way Sam had come. He'd grabbed a gun from one of the displays the Huntingtons had showed them earlier, and Sam remembered rather inanely that it was one of the ones his dad had pretended to know nothing about. Sam trailed his father, and Jed Huntington drifted on beside them as his wife went for the phone in the library.

"Sam, wait in the room with-"

John didn't get to finish the sentence. When Sam heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, he went running, blindly, running toward his brother.

* * *

"Sam, no!" John exclaimed as his youngest shot forward, like a dog or a horse at the races, sprinting like he would not be fed without winning. His kids had never been taught to run the other way in instances of danger, no, and sometimes, he himself really deserved to be shot for not instilling that instinct.

"Damnitt," he growled, running forward himself. But damn if that kid's legs didn't grow twice as long overnight, or John didn't just age ten years in the last ten seconds. Sam ran ran ran, and John bellowed at him to stop as he followed.

Sam reached the open main doors a beat before John, and he came to a sudden stop and just froze, yelling, "Dean, no!"

John didn't know what his youngest had seen - and god, he didn't want to... but instinct took over, and he knew enough to encase Sam in his arms and pull the both of them behind one of the pillars lining the open doors of the house, taking cover. A gunshot splintered the wood by the door where Sam had just been standing.

"Jed, stay inside!" John hollered to their host, who had lagged behind Sam and John and then stayed back, as instructed.

John held Sam in his arms, trying to get a better handle on the situation. His youngest was shaking violently, and John had to shut out his own fears - _what the hell did you see?_ - had to get them out of this alive first. He craned his neck past the door to get a better look at the gunman, cautiously. He couldn't see the assailant, couldn't see much from where he was standing, really, except all the damned blood on the ground, going down on rivulets because there was a slight incline to the rotunda.

So much goddamned blood that he wasn't sure if he could really smell it or could just imagine smelling it.

"Dean," Sam said, voice trembling and low, and though his eyes were haunted he wasn't crying. He looked fucking terrifying. "Dean's on the ground, dad. He's on the ground."

And then John's fears stopped, and so did his apprehensions. Choices can be so easy at the junctions when life was the most hard.

"How many are there, Sam?"

"Just one, I think," came the small reply.

"Okay," he said. He gave Sam a squeeze, before letting him go. He gripped the rifle in his hands at the ready, pressed the long barrel to his temple as if in salute.

He leaned against the door and let out a seemingly-reckless, high shot in roughly the direction where he thought the gunman would be. The retaliation of their attacker was swift and professional, just over John's head, where he expected John would be. But the former US Marine and the experienced hunter had moved off cover and crouched low when the gunman let out his shot. John spotted the man and took careful aim, knew it rang true when the man yelled in pain and his gun fell to a clatter on the ground.

John ran forward right away, and god, he would never know what he had inside him that allowed him to walk right past Dean and that girl on the ground, blood all over them. He spitefully kicked the gun away from the fallen kidnapper's reach. He crouched over the man and hit him on the face twice, rendering him barely-conscious before patting him down for other weapons. When John felt the blood on the ground soaking his jeans and diffusing past the fabric to kiss his skin, he picked the man up again and hit him twice more to knock him out, and then twice more just because it was Dean's blood mixed up in there.

Certain that the threat had been neutralized, he raised his eyes to the gut-wrenching sight of Dean on the ground, and Sam on his knees beside him. There was a sea of blood pooled around them, black under the silver light of the moon. The blood was leaving Dean and getting all over Sam; the kid's hands where he pressed at the wound on his older brother's chest, Sam's pants wherever they hit the soaked ground, Sam's lowered face when Dean coughed out a thin spritz of the precious liquid. John stared at them and for a breathless moment, he couldn't move.

Reality and the need for action seeped into him gradually; Margie Huntington's keening wails as she and Jed held their unmoving daughter, the sound of Dean's air-hungry rasping, and Sam saying over and over and over, "_Eyes on me, Dean. Come on, you jerk, eyes right on me_."

* * *

The cops and paramedics came to the scene with three cabs for the two injured teenagers and the chauffeur, who was decidedly quite _dead_ in the trunk where the kidnapper had shoved him. There was nothing they could do for Annie Huntington on the scene, and they just packaged her out of there and spirited her away in one of the ambulances with her hysterical mother. Jed had to be left behind because there was no room, and he was in a calmer disposition for driving to the hospital himself.

For Dean, on the other hand, the EMTs got busy right there on the ground. John's eldest son looked long-beyond pain, his waxy face just flatly calm, expressionless as his eyes rolled around emptily, looking at nothing, or maybe looking at the shitloads of something that only those dead and near-dead could see. His limbs had stopped twitching, had stopped resisting, and they looked like limp pieces of meat the people around him could just shift around _this way, that way, this way, that_...

The paramedics tore at Dean's clothes to treat him. The good pants, the one decent shirt... all lost, because they just cut at his clothes and it was inexplicably _offensive_ to John. Because Dean had changed for the night, hadn't he? He'd gone from his ratty band shirt and hand-me-down flannels to these better frocks, looking like he belonged in this borrowed life, and John had allowed him, had allowed them all this one night to let their guard down. And god, they've been unmasked and here they swam in blood all over again, paid handsomely for the delusion that they can rest for a night, they can be like everyone else for a night. _God_ did they pay.

The EMTs allowed John into the ambulance but not Sam; there was no room, they needed to work, and there was barely space enough for the father whom they needed to keep around so that he could make key decisions for his critically-injured minor son. Sam surprised John by backing off, but he looked shit-scared and stunned, like he'd have let them leave him in the middle of the desert if it meant he was standing out of the way of the people who could save his brother. Jed Huntington stood beside Sam and told John he would drive with the youngest Winchester to the hospital.

The ambulance doors closed on the sight of Sam standing beside the burly man.

* * *

The next time John lays his eyes on his youngest son, Sam is sitting on the far end of a long, lonely waiting hall lined by empty chairs. He was in the same bloodied clothes, wearing the same stunned expression. Someone had provided a blanket for him, but it had slipped off of his shoulders and pooled on his back and sides. His body was tightly-wrought, like frayed nerves standing on end, as he sat ramrod straight at the edge of the chair, like he was ready to spring up at any second. He looked like a gargoyle there, grotesque and hyper-aware, just-returned to its perch after having killed some poor bastard.

John sat beside him, exhaling long and carefully.

"A doctor came over," Sam blurted out into the silence, "He said Mr. Huntington had to go with him because Annie wasn't going to make it, and he should say goodbye. He kind of forgot about me, but that's all right."

John pressed his lips together, and nodded. "They're still working on Dean."

"I thought so," Sam said quietly, "That's good, that... that they can work on... on something."

"We should get you cleaned up," John told him.

Sam just shook his head, "I don't wanna miss anything. What if they come looking for us, and we'd have to go with them, and-"

"They won't be done for hours," John coaxed him, getting to his feet and expecting Sam to follow, "But I'll leave word with someone, and they'd know exactly where to look for us, I promise. We should clean you up."

Sam looked up at him, and for the life of him, John could not tell what the kid could have thought, before making his decision to stand up and follow his father.

_

* * *

_

What would things be like, if there was just the two of us left...

Sam could donate blood and keep someone alive if he just squeezed all of Dean's away from his clothes. He got to his feet and followed wherever the hell his father led; John spoke to a nurse on duty and took Sam into a bathroom.

Once there, he unbuttoned Sam's shirt carefully, and Sam just let him, watching the adroit but careful hands, his father's calloused fingers working. John peeled the soggy clothes away from Sam, ordered him to start washing his face.

Numbly, Sam shoved his hands into the sink and let the water run over his skin. He watched the red streaks go down the white porcelain, stared at the swirly splotches as they went from dark to light.

"Too hot," John muttered at him, and he hadn't noticed the temperature of the water until his father adjusted the knobs. Sam washed the blood from his hands, and then worked up to his forearms. He felt his father work on his back and arms with wet paper towels.

Sam started to work on his neck, and then up to his face. He stared at himself in the mirror and decided he still looked like a glorious mess, and he hadn't even gotten to his soaked pants. He closed his eyes and rubbed aggressively at his face, imagining he was making himself cleaner and also more aware. He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, like he could wake himself up from a bad dream.

He felt his father's hands push down his own, and he looked up at his father's reflection in the mirror.

_We kind of look alike_, he thought inanely, _Dean's the one who must look like mom_.

"I got this," John told him quietly, going on one knee in front of Sam and using the wet paper towels again to wipe at his youngest son's face and neck.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled at him.

"You're not hurt or anything like that, right?" John asked.

"No dad," Sam replied, gulping, because his father being gentle like this was paradoxically breaking him down, chipping at the control he'd been trying to build up since the paramedics took his brother away.

"D-dad..." Sam stammered, before he felt his face crumple, and the tears leak from his eyes. John just grabbed him close, held him as he cried.

"I don't..." Sam tried to say, voice muffled by his father's embrace, "I don't understand any of this."

"You and me both, kiddo," John told him, "You and me both."

* * *

It's Bobby Singer who sheds some light into things, hours later.

He, John and Sam were sitting in with Dean in the ICU, television set on low with news that following the arrest of Annie Huntington's attempted-kidnapper and now-murderer, Marcus Tenet is being released from prison.

"Anytime a cop hears hoofbeats, he thinks horse," Bobby said, "And anytime a hunter hears 'em, he thinks-"

"Minotaur," John said absently, as he listened to Marcus Tenet talking about his innocence and being grateful to his supporters in an impromptu press conference outside of jail.

"The common adage goes to 'zebra,'" Bobby said wryly, "But whatever. The point is: something bad happens and cop thinks: common criminal. Hunter, on the other hand, thinks it's something more exotic, like a ghost. Other times... it's the goddamned unholy spawn of both. Like now."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I'm thinking Marcus Tenet killed Linda Carin years ago when she went missing," Bobby explained, "He got away with it scott-free. A couple of weeks ago, he needed money so he sold his car. A common criminal like Duane Viner wants a burner vehicle he can use so he wouldn't get traced on a kidnapping, so he buys it. Kidnapped girl meets ghost in the trunk, and you have two crimes years apart, committed by two different men, colliding. It happens 'cos shit happens. Murphy's Law, you know – if it can go wrong, it sure as hell will."

"Or it's my piss-poor luck," John growled.

"Doesn't have to be that," Bobby soothed him, "It makes sense in it's own way...think about it like this: crazy bastard who needs money and wants to finally get rid of a car he did all sorts of crap in, meets a two-bit criminal who wants a burner car on the cheap. Supply and demand."

Sam was still staring up at the TV when he broke in, "So he's just getting away, isn't he? Because Annie told the cops Linda had been with her inside the trunk, they'll just assume it was this new guy who kidnapped both girls. Marcus Tenet is just gonna get away again."

"It's not our job, Sam," John told him mildly.

"Whose is it?" Sam snapped at him, "Cos it sure looks to me like he's just walking away from all of this."

"When's sleeping beauty here gonna grace us with her presence?" Bobby cut in, nodding in the direction of Dean.

"Not for another few days," John replied, "He's gonna be pretty weak from this for awhile, but he's gonna be okay."

**TO BE CONCLUDED** in an Epilogue, which will be posted soon with an Author's Afterword, and a Preview of my next project, _Angel of God_. Thanks for reading, and 'til the next post!


	11. Chapter 11

Author: Mirrordance

Title: **Less Traveled By**

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

**Hi guys**,

Whew! The final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who has been following this story. Extended notes and thanks are at the end of the fic. As always, I look forward to hearing your c & c's; please let me know what you think if you have time :) Without further ado, the conclusion to _Less Traveled By_:

**

* * *

**

Less Traveled By

Epilogue

_Weeks Later, 1997_

_

* * *

_

"Two choices."

John looked down at the terrified man in front of him, who was all wide, round eyes as he stared up at John, with his wide, round mouth about the barrel of John's gun.

"Bullet goes in," John told him, "Or the truth comes out."

Marcus Tenet is trembling, looking up at John like he was the wrath of god. Muffled sounds come from the man's mouth, incomprehensible with the gun he had to talk around, really, but it didn't take a genius to realize he was asking who the hell John was and why he was there.

John just blinked at him, and pressed the barrel threateningly against the other man's mouth harder. "Two choices. Ten seconds."

Tenet shook his head vigorously, and tears leaked from his eyes.

"Nine..."

_There had to be a goddamn different medical definition of 'waking up in a few days' from what the rest of the world could understand, John thought. The doctors told him Dean would wake up after a few days, but if that's what they called the kid's eyes opening and staring at nothing before closing again, that was the extent of what Dean did in the days after the shooting. _

_Lazy eyes opening, unfocused and roving, just seconds at a time a couple of times each day, before the green gaze made its exit, lids like curtains signaling the end of the show. It was the extent that Dean woke, and the extent that he moved. His body was a pale, limp mass on the bed, just days in but already obviously thinning, even as it paradoxically looked heavier and heavier and more and more immobile._

_And speaking of immobile... Sam never leaves his older brother's side outside of the light meal or the bathroom. Kid could be the one growing the bed sores that the nurses try to protect Dean from by turning him once in awhile, what with how much Sam kind of just stayed put and grew roots on the awful chair by Dean's bed._

"...Eight."

_The doctors told him, they had social workers and excellent psychologists in the hospital. People who could help Sam now, and Dean too when he's stronger. The youngest looked like he was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. John takes it in and nods; he was a vet, and he fucking knew what that meant and what it looked like. But he was Sam's father, and he knew the only thing that could fix him was Dean._

"...Seven."

_It was probably the vent, as hospital infections and complications went, but either way, as if getting shot in the chest wasn't enough, his oldest son catches pneumonia days into his admission. _

_The already-inadequate daily, green-gaze curtain-shows ceased completely, as Dean's body retreated out of such (apparently) _lofty_ ambitions as _opening one's eyes_ and just reverting to trying to fucking breathe first. Nothing was going in the right direction; his oxygen levels were plummeting, but his temperature was rising, and his heart rate was going through the roof. Scans of his chest were all cloudy and wrong, even a layman's eyes could see. Nothing was going right._

"...Six."

_Dean was dead weight on his bed, but he wasn't dead, not yet. _

_Or maybe he was, that one time._

_He didn't look any different or any more still, but the machines screamed, shouting that a whole bunch of things had stopped, even if Dean didn't look it. Sam was freaking the fuck out, shaking and crying, saying he just fell asleep for a few minutes and then Dean slipped away. The youngest Winchester's body rattled like he was going to explode into a million different pieces without John holding him together._

_But they get Dean back, so it doesn't count._

_Sam said it didn't count. _

_And because the doctors got Dean back, John gets Sam back too, who calms, and steadies, and is coherent again. But he barely sleeps now._

"...Five."

_Sam leaves Dean's side for just one occasion._

_It was for Annie Huntington's funeral. _

_Sam leaves the hospital, a somber and surprisingly well-dressed Bobby Singer accompanying him, with much apprehension, practically threatening his older brother with bodily harm and eternal unresting curses if he went _anywhere_ while Sam was away._

_Dean flatines again, and of all things right and holy, John is struck with the paralyzing fear that if Dean died here and now, Sam would never forgive John for Dean dying on his watch._

Not on my watch, Dean_, he had heard himself begging, _And not ever_._

Please_._

_They get him back, and he didn't die, so it doesn't count. And he sure as hell doesn't tell Sam, who returns in just an hour, almost anally exact to the minute. He doesn't tell Sam, because the kid was still wearing Annie Huntington's funeral on his face._

"...Four."

_Dean recovers, slowly, and one day the fever breaks, leaving his skin glistening and sweat-slick. His breathing is more erratic, but it was because he was fighting now, his chest rising more forcefully and with more initiative, than the mechanical way the machines just did all the work for him._

_The doctors become more confident in taking away some of the more invasive machines, move him to his own room. He opens his eyes again, but this time with more clarity and in minutes at a time, as he stares at Sam or John or Bobby._

"... Three."

_He wakes up _for _real, as in _how normal people would define it_ days after fighting off the worst effects of the pneumonia. He comes to with a shuddering breath as he is turned on his side by a couple of nurses, and the doctors examine the wound beneath the bandages on his chest and the exit wound on his back._

_John is there, lowering his face level to Dean's line of sight, as the glazed greens flutter open. Sam is knocked out asleep on the couch, never too far away._

_"Easy," he murmured to his son, "You're okay."_

_Dean's body was trembling, bones rattling beneath sallow ivory skin, the last few days having torn from him – as if it was so easy – the vitality of his tanned young skin, and healthy flesh and muscle. He was white as the sheets, white as the bandages on his wounds, and all these made his eyes stand out stark and glowing as they settled on his father's face._

_He licked at his brutally dry lips, and when his voice came out it sounded thin and small, "I'm not..."_

_John hovered closer to listen._

_"I'm not," Dean grunted as the nurses shifted him, "I'm not so... out of it... that I don't... don't know."_

_John's brows furrowed, "Dean, take it easy, all right? This can wait."_

_"No," Dean insisted, and he shook his head vigorously, "No- ahhhh!"_

_He arched a little; the doctor examining him had hit a sore spot, and the grip of the nurses around him tightened._

_"Shhh," John soothed, reaching for Dean's arm, finding a space amidst the web of arms that held his son down; he knew Dean would recognize his touch in a mess of others'._

_"I know she's dead," Dean finished spitefully, and the tears fell from his burning eyes then, "I know it's 'cos of me."_

_"Dean," John said, not knowing what else to say, just shaking his head._

_"It's 'cos of me," he said again, softer, closing his eyes._

_He'd wake up a couple more times after that, saying almost exactly the same thing: "I'm not so out of it that I don't know (but apparently, he was out of it enough to keep forgetting he's said this before); She's dead and it's because of me."_

"...Two."

_His guilt could eat up all of them whole and alive. It was the dark cloud over Dean's bed, it was all over his face, and it sat heavy in the quiet, hovering and casting a shadow over all of them. _

_Sam started sleeping after it looked like Dean was recovering, and it was now John;s eldest who kept up the night shift; he said he couldn't sleep, turning the scenarios over and over and over again in his head. Things he would do differently, things he would change. _

_The Huntingtons come to visit one evening, still in their mourning black but still gracious and effusively apologetic for not having come sooner. John isn't sure if Dean is up for visitors, so he keeps them by the door and comes over to Dean's bed._

_From the panicked look on Dean's face, he heard who was at the door and had an answer for John right away._

_"Don't let 'em in, dad," he said, voice low, fearing he would be heard. He looked up at his father earnestly, "Don't let 'em in. I can't right now." _

_"Can't what?" John found himself asking._

_"I'll deal with it later," Dean told him dismissively, quickly, "It's my fault, and we all know it, and they're gonna _crucify_ me. I'll man up later, but I can't right now."_

_"Dean, they're not-"_

_Dean's breaths were coming in hard and fast, and he started shaking. He coughed, covered up his mouth with a ratty piece of tissue he'd been working on for the last couple hours. He grabbed his father's arm with his other hand and held on like his life depended on it. In many ways, John believed Dean thought so; that his life, it depended on John not letting the Huntingtons in, because the Huntingtons were coming in to punish him. Because in Dean's head, all of this was very clearly his doing._

_"Dean-" John stammered, but there was no comforting him now, he knew that. His son's eyes were wild, reflecting a mind sleepless and tortured, and his barely-recovering body was a quaking shell incapable of holding anything more than what he already had on his plate. His hand was still low-fever warm, and he looked small and sick and deathly terrified._

_"Okay," John told him quietly, slipping from Dean's grip, and telling the Huntingtons that Dean was asleep and still sick on top of the gunshot wound. They looked disappointed but sympathetic, saying they would just come back. _

_When John returned to the room, he found Sam sitting on his brother's hospital bed, having moved from his usual seat. Dean was lying on his side, curled slightly toward his younger brother, whose small hand rested over the older one's head. Dean's eyes were closed but he was awake, still had that infernal piece of tissue in hand over his mouth as he coughed softly._

_Sam's glassy, lonely eyes met John's. And there was something in his youngest eyes that he'd never seen before: _Pity. _Just an unimaginable lot of it, focused on the older brother, who for once in his life, just curled up and took it. Sam looked like someone kicked his dog, and Dean, _god_, did he look like said-kicked-dog _or what_. They both looked uncharacteristically beaten down, and the sight of it made John's stomach clench and his blood boil._

"... One."

_It was that look, _that look_ of Sam's that fueled John's anger, that had him tearing away from the hospital and down the road to Marcus Tenet's house. _

_He didn't know what he was thinking, but his hands and his feet knew to steer the car that way, and they were all fueled by this anger that was just cooking in his veins. Violence, he knew, were expected and anticipated, not to mention wildly desired, by the fists on the wheel that closed and opened and closed and opened and closed again._

_He wanted to get his hands on Duane Viner, the two-bit criminal kidnapper who had killed Annie Huntington and tried to kill Dean. But that good-for-nothing little bitch was protected in fucking prison, wasn't he? Just a couple minutes away, though, was a rat-bastard who was about to get away with murder, begging to meet John's fists. Why the hell not shouldn't he be driving down this road?_

_He was sick, just sick and tired of these fucks who thought they could get away with hurting others. These conscience-less bastards, who could just go through life after dirtying their goddamn hands with the blood of innocents, not feeling the guilt, not letting it eat and kill them. These pricks can just go on the rest of their lives, while his sons were punishing themselves for failing to protect people._

I'll make him feel all right_, John determined, when he broke into Marcus Tenet's house, and snuck into his bedroom and straddled him on the bed, silencing his startled cry by shoving a gun into his mouth. "Two choices: Bullet goes in, or the truth comes out."_

_The man squirmed and fought, but John was skilled and he thought, even if he wasn't, he sure as hell was determined and would get his way. _

_"What did you do to Linda Carin?" John asked, menacingly._

_The man beneath him shook his head, struggled some more, started weeping._

_"I ain't gonna ask twice," John told him darkly, "But I can tell you again, you got two choices. Bullet goes in, or the truth comes out. Two choices. Ten seconds."_

_He counted down to one._

A long, garbled reply. John pulled the gun away from the younger man's mouth.

"Say that again," John barked at him.

"It was an accident," Tenet sobbed, "I just got th-th-the car, and I, I was d-driving and I d-didn't see her, all right? I was a kid and I was fucking freaking out, and no one was there to see, so I just picked her up from the ground and sh-sh-shoved her in the t-trunk."

"Where's she now?" John asked.

"Gone, man," Tenet said, "I just... I just dumped her in the lake."

John cocked the gun again, and this time, placed it by Tenet's forehead.

"Put the gun down, Johnny."

He was gonna press the goddamn trigger, he really was.

"What are you doing here, Singer?" John growled at the new arrival, not bothering to turn around but feeling the older hunter's presence behind him, just by the door of Marcus Tenet's bedroom.

"So I get back from a pretty peaceful dinner," Bobby says, tone self-mockingly light, "Only to have Sam tell me you left the hospital 'with that look on your face.'"

"Jesus," John breathed, running a weary hand over said face, as if wiping away 'that look.'

"Pounding bullets into Tenet isn't gonna help anyone," Bobby told him, "'Sides, I thought you told Sam that dealing with him wasn't our job?"

"It's not a hunter's job," John clarified, "But it sure as hell ain't a father's job telling his kid-son it's okay to go fucking vigilante, either, I thought. I was gonna deal with him myself and keep it quiet."

"Well too bad," Bobby said, "'Cos I'm here now and you ain't doing anything that can get you in trouble."

"I got a confession," John said, "We know he's guilty. But there's no body, no evidence, and no case, and the moment we're clear of this place this weasel ain't confessing anything to anyone. I really wouldn't feel bad about pulling the trigger here and now and plugging this little piece of shit."

"Not our fight, Johnny," Bobby said, "I ain't letting you cross that line because you know as well as I do; there's no turning back. Come on, ya idjit, walk away and just have a drink with me."

John's eyes narrowed and he growled in displeasure, even as he asked, "On you?"

"Still wheelin' and dealin'," Bobby said distastefully, "Yeah, jackass. On me."

John nodded shortly and holstered his gun. Marcus Tenet exhaled in relief, which John cut short by hitting him across the face and lowering his mouth down by Tenet's ears.

"You get a pass," John told him, "God knows why. But you had better keep your nose clean or else I come back and I won't be knocking. Have a long miserable life looking over your shoulder, you sonofabitch."

* * *

Dean watches the news regularly once he is stronger and more aware, and learns that 'Duane Viner' was an alias for a career criminal who had a long rap sheet but wasn't some freak stalker or sexual predator or anything like that. The Huntingtons were wealthy, he needed money, and he just wanted to kidnap Annie Huntington for ransom. He had nothing whatsoever to do with Linda Carin, whose life was taken by Marcus Tenet years ago, the same way Marcus Tenet had nothing to do with Annie Huntington. The two crimes just intersected in that one car, and then mowed over all of them.

It brought home something that pained Dean so completely; not only did Annie take a bullet for him, he also understood that as a professional criminal, Duane Viner wouldn't have hurt Annie because he needed her for ransom. If Dean had just checked the hero at the door, if he'd just sat still, if he'd just not done anything, chances were that the Huntingtons would be set back a couple million but would still have their daughter alive.

"It's not your fault," Sam told him one night, knowing what he was thinking as they watched television, "You couldn't have known, and you couldn't have just stood there."

Dean shook his head at his brother, said nothing. His chest and his back was still burning, it still hurt to breathe, yes, but maybe there was just nothing to say. He started coughing again, and pressed a tissue over his mouth.

Sam tsked at him and grabbed the ratty piece in Dean's hand, replaced it with a fresh one. He took the soiled tissue to the trash by the fingertips, muttering "Gross-gross-gross" until he got rid of it.

It made Dean smile a little, and though tiny and fast, Sam caught it, made the kid smile a little bit too.

"Got any idea when I'm getting out of here?" Dean asked.

Sam just shook his head, "You're nowhere near well, man. And I heard them say, once you're better, you'd need some rehab too. To regain muscle strength and control, since the bullet ran through a whole bunch of stuff."

"Great," Dean sighed, closing his eyes and pulling his blankets up higher.

"You cold?" Sam asked.

"Whadja think?"

"You're always cold, lately," Sam said, grabbing an extra blanket from one of the closets and settling it over Dean, "But that will get better too."

"How long have I been in here," Dean murmured, "The days look the same."

"A couple of weeks," Sam said after a moment of thought, also surprising himself.

"And you've just been here the whole time," Dean said distastefully.

"I was worried, sue me," Sam retorted, "I guess I uh... I can go back to school soon."

Dean pressed his lips together, looked away thoughtfully, "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," Sam said affirmatively, "I guess it's about time. I can even get your schoolwork for you, and bring it by here or at rehab every day so you don't get too far behind."

"I'm already too far behind," Dean said, "I'm so far behind I'm out of the races this year, I think. I really don't think I'm gonna make it this year."

"The circumstance are extraordinary and your grades are good," Sam insisted, "God knows how or why. I'm sure the teachers won't be heartless, Dean. We can make arrangements, you won't have to repeat the year and all that."

Dean took a deep breath and coughed it out, shaking his head again, "I really don't wanna get into this now with you, Sammy."

"I think I know what you're worried about."

"Sam-" Dean warned him.

"No," Sam argued, "You're gonna get this into your thick skull. You're not gonna walk in there with people thinking any less of you, Dean. You're a victim, same as Annie. She died, you made it, that's that."

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean yelled at him, ending it in another cough that softened Sam's tone but did nothing to ease his resolve.

"No one's gonna think it's your fault, Dean."

"It doesn't matter if they think it or not!" Dean retorted, "It's my fault, Sam. It's my fault. It's fucking bad enough she takes a bullet with my name on it, man, but if I'd just... if I'd just stopped, if I'd just... I don't know. I don't know, Sam. If I never walked into her life she'd be alive. That's all I can think. Her family will hate me, her friends, everyone... she probably hates me, up where all the nice dead people go."

"She doesn't hate you, Dean," Sam said, "She liked you. A lot. And she wouldn't have taken the bullet if she didn't think you deserved her sacrifice."

"It doesn't matter," Dean said after a long moment, "She's dead, and that's on me, Sam. It's on me, it's on all over me."

* * *

Sam was _this close _to telling his brother he'd been, in many ways, adored by Annie. But he stopped short, wondering if it would hurt his brother more. Dean's problem was that he felt unworthy of the sacrifice or the love of others, and undeserving of forgiveness. It was like a death-spiral, how that cycle of guilt just went on down and faster. Unworthy, so at fault. At fault, and so unforgivable. And down and deep and faster it went.

And even if he didn't feel he was at fault for Annie's death, there was also the undeniable loss of a friend, especially when they had so few to begin with. Sam knew that Dean didn't have to love Annie back for her absence to hurt. He just had to care a little, and Dean's other problem was that he tended to care a lot.

Sam, like their father, finds himself turning away visitors at Dean's stubborn insistence. But the inexhaustible Cherry does leave pie, and Sam takes it as a good sign that Dean actually eats some of it.

"See?" Sam told him one day, "I told you, no one thinks it's your fault."

"And I told you," Dean snapped at him, "It doesn't matter what they think. I just know what I know."

But Sam knew it did matter, it always mattered. As a matter of fact, it mattered now more than ever after the Winchesters have had a taste of people's trust and love and admiration.

Dean started getting stronger and consequently, the hospital started being less lax with imposing the visiting hours on the Winchesters. Dean having been so near-death had granted the Winchesters concessions the hospital could no longer provide.

With little else to do and the work mounting, Sam went back to school. The first few days were odd, because he found that without Annie, he didn't know if he was still friends with her friends.

But they still tended to wave him over to join them, and would still sit with him and talk with him. It was just like before except darker and slower, because Dean and Annie weren't there. But he went on and they went on, the planets kept on turning, and he himself still shone. There was still a life to be had here, out in the light.

_

* * *

_

The thing with hospitals, Dean reflected glumly, is that after the fear and the shock and the hurt that brought you in there is eased by the relief of eventual healing, there's a lot of boredom between then and freedom.

_He was asleep most of the time but unquestionably getting better, and he knew he was near to being released when his father brought in his homework._

"Seriously?" Dean asked John when he dropped a massive envelope on his swiveling dining table, "Dad, come on."

"Get to reading, Dean," John told him, "You have a lot of school to catch up on."

They've both been here before, there was no denying that. But the ending was different, as Dean pushed the envelope away.

"No."

John's face pinched, "Dean, you're well enough to do this, and you might as well start-"

"But what's it all for, dad?" Dean countered, "Seriously, I'm not being a smart-ass here. It's an honest-to-god question, old man. What's it all for?"

"A high school education is the minimum you need to function in this world-"

Dean rolled back his eyes, "I can read, I can write, I can talk, I can do math and chemistry and physics and I can run rings around you on all of them. You can do better than this, dad. What. Is. It. All. For."

"I don't have to explain myself on this," John told him tersely, "Get to w-"

"No," Dean argued, "You can't use the drill-sergeant bit on me on this, dad. Play fair, and answer me, _please_. Please, dad. I don't wanna go back there, so you gotta give me a good reason why I need this when I know everything I need to know to do what I have to do as a hunter. Unless you're telling me, what? I'm headed to college? I'm gonna need more education so I can one day run a fucking bank? What's it for?"

Dean searched his father's face, realized that the question perplexed the older man too.

"I don't wanna go back there," Dean pleaded, "You can't make me, dad. I can't look them all in the eye while know what I know: that she died and it's my fault. The only way you can get me back in there is if there's a good reason why. I _need_ you to give me that reason, dad. If you're gonna make me go back there, I need you to do that. And I seldom ask you for anything but I'm asking now."

"You won't always be a hunter," John said, it sounded like it was getting wrenched out of him, "You gotta give yourself a chance to be something else."

Dean just snorted, "You honestly think that? If I get my high school diploma, and ditch you and Sam for college, you'd let me, right? You'd up and say, 'I'm proud of you, son' or 'Go get 'em tiger.' Right? That's how that scenario's gonna go?"

John stared at him, "After we kill the thing that hurt your mother-"

"After," Dean scoffed, "After we kill the thing that hurt mom-"

"Your mother would have my ass if you didn't at least finish high school," John cut the mockery, finally, and maybe that was it, and maybe that was all.

"She'd want you to finish high school," John said quietly, "She'd want you to finish."

Dean closed his eyes in defeat, and he felt himself trembling, "Don't use that card, dad. Play fair, I said."

"It's all I got to play with," John admitted, "Listen, Dean. You're almost done with school, see? Just a little bit more. You don't even have to go back to this one. We can go somewhere else."

"I won't get the breaks from other schools from my absences here," Dean said, "If I transfer, I'd have to start the year over and you know it. You can't make me go, dad. I know what I need to know, right? I already know what I need to know to be what I'm gonna be: a hunter, just like you."

"I'd be doing you an injustice if I let you do this, son," John confessed. "_I _can't."

"Well it's not up to you anymore," Dean said quietly, "I don't... I don't understand the rules _out there_, dad. I'm not made for that life, this normal thing with all the crazy people doing all sorts of shit to each other. I don't get it, I don't get any of it. I can't fit in, I'm the wrong fucked-up shape, and I screwed up. I can't go back. I won't go back."

* * *

The school year ends, and this is the only time Dean finally gets clearance from his doctors and his family to drive, and the only time he finds the guts to call up Jed Huntington's office for an appointment.

Like before he barely gets through the secretary, who tells him the next free time Mr. Huntington had was in a month. He gives his name, though, and in ten minutes he's got reserved parking on the tallest building in town and an executive assistant leading him up to the boss' offices at the top floor.

The burly man walks over to him, and he looked thinner and older, and the hug he gives Dean is less emphatic. He never thought he'd miss the bone-crushing affection of it, but he did.

"I'm happy to see you on your feet, Dean," Jed told him, "They said you got complications."

_Oh, he's got complications all right_.

"I'm good now," Dean assured him, "Done with rehab too and everything. We were uh... my family and I, we're pulling up roots again, and I guess I just... I never had the chance to..."

"Margie and I understood completely," Jed told him as he scrambled for words, "You were injured, and then sick. Your condolences were with us, Dean, make no mistake."

"It's not just that," Dean said, averting his eyes, "It's not just that. I've uh... I've filed the reports with the cops, and the DA got our statements and stuff so you gotta know what really happened out there by now, just... just not from me. And I think I owe you that."

"You don't owe us anything, Dean-"

"I owe you everything," Dean countered him breathlessly, and there was this lump in his throat. It was the first time his soul hurt so badly it manifested physically, because it was just killing his throat, he couldn't work around it.

"Your daughter," Dean stammered, "Annie. She died for me, and she died 'cos of me. None of this would have happened if I just stayed still and never walked into your life. I'm sorry." He swiped angrily at the tears welling in his eyes, "God, I'm so sorry."

Jed stared at him for a long time, his own throat working around whatever was lodged in there, lumps and words and maybe anger but maybe forgiveness too.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Dean," he said tightly, finally, "And I don't think it's gonna change your mind but I'm gonna tell you why. I find it hard to dislike this kid who tried his darndest and risked his own life – twice – to save my daughter. It doesn't matter that the man who tried to take her was just a kidnapper and that he wouldn't have hurt her. You couldn't have known that then. All you could have known was that someone was taking her away, and you couldn't stand for that. It could have been me, defending her, it could have been me, unknowingly getting her killed. It really could have been me. More than that, though... I find it hard to dislike a kid my daughter would take a bullet for. This whole situation... it gets too complex, and we can both get lost in it forever. But sometimes it's simple too, and that is all: I can't hate a man my daughter would die for. I can't hate you, Dean."

Dean is running his hand over his face, again and again, like he could take it off and take everything that he was feeling off. He didn't do too well with generosity and kindness and forgiveness. It was screwed up but he was self-aware enough to know that. He went in here with a script in his head, in a story that ended with him getting yelled at and punched and thrown out the door. But here he was, being consoled by the man who arguably needed more consoling. Again, it just brought home what he'd known all along; he didn't understand this world, not at all.

"That said," Jed cleared his throat, "Are you well enough to be back in school now?"

Dean pressed his lips together, tried to find the strength to lie and say yes, that he was back in school. He wanted to assure Jed that he wasn't wasting the life Annie had given him, that Annie had given up for him. But he couldn't lie to this man, right? He couldn't...

"No," he shook his head, "I'm not."

"But you are going back to school," Jed clarified, "Wherever it is you and your family are moving to."

_Lie, goddamnit, just lie_.

"Yes," Dean said, and it was like pulling teeth, not wanting to lie, but finding no better recourse because really, how could he tell the man in front of him that _I'm not going back to school, but I'm not wasting the life she gave me, I promise. You'd have less to fear in the dark with me out there. I promise. I'm not wasting the life she gave me._

"Good," Jed brightened, "Good."

Dean nodded, "I uh... I should go. You're probably busy. Your secretary told me, before she knew who I was, that your next free ten minutes is a month from now."

"Busy is good," Jed said, "Busy takes my mind off of things."

"I'll see you around, Mr. Huntington," Dean said, "And you know... if you could just say what I said to the Mrs."

"Of course," Jed said, shaking Dean's hand, "Good luck out there, boy. Bright things, right? Bright things for you?"

Dean nodded numbly, "Yeah. Bright things."

**The End.**

January 27, 2011

**

* * *

**

Afterword

* * *

**Contents**

I. The Main Theme: Divergence

II. This Crazy Hybrid Case Fic

III. The Characters

IV. Massive Thanks and Responses

V. Preview: _Ever This Day 4: Angel of God_

_

* * *

_

**I. The Main Theme: Divergence**

It will be apparent to some that the title, _Less Traveled By, _is borrowed from Robert Frost's _The Road Not Taken_: "...Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by..."

The fic is basically about the Winchesters standing at a crossing, a point where choices had to be made and roads had to be chosen. This is why in the end, the case they were working on was both a natural and a supernatural one; I wanted them to be heavily exposed to both, like the guy in the poem looking down the road as far as he can to see what's there and where it could go, an exposure which made the choices after that much more informed and that much richer.

This exposure to the two roads manifested itself through themes of pairs, dualities, and dichotomies that I tried to put all across the fic:

(1) Linda Carin's case vs. Annie Huntington's case – this tension represents a supernatural case (Linda's) and a normal criminal case (Annie's);

(2) Peace vs. Justice – when John is torn between handling a case the supernatural way, or leaving it to the authorities;

(3) The Supernatural vs. the Natural World – note how the Winchesters were being dragged into the normal, and how they were dragging Annie Huntington into the supernatural;

(4) John Winchester vs. Jed Huntington – representing very particular parenting styles, again in accordance with being a father enmeshed in the supernatural and one in the more worldly; and

(5) Dean vs. Sam – ultimately where the fic leads to, would be the choices of the brothers in what they are pursuing: Dean shuns the normal, and Sam decides he could still be part of the natural world, both choices not necessarily less right or more noble than the other.

I'm not sure if the pairs-thing came across, but I hope after reading this author's note, it would be more apparent and fun to note :)

**II. This Crazy Hybrid Case-Fic**

I was a little bit apprehensive about this as a case-fic. I was thinking, man, people would think it's a ridiculous stretch if it were both a supernatural case and a normal, criminal case. But I just couldn't let it go... and I really tried my best to justify how this could happen, haha:

(1) Murphy's Law – which should also be another term for Winchester Luck (or Lack Thereof); if it can go wrong, it will; and

(2) Law of Supply and Demand – car with a bad history up for a cheap, quick sale meets two-bit criminal who wants to use it on a kidnapping and then just toss it. Someone wants to sell, someone wants to buy, easy as pie, haha.

I know it's a stretch, but I hope it's not too crazy. Again, I wanted to portray an intersection between the natural and the supernatural.

**III. The Characters**

Dean

I think I often fall short on depicting his complexity; I've always said that I am a Dean-girl who enjoys writing about Sam more, haha, and this might have shown on this fic. His depiction here is certainly more straightforward than his younger brother's, I think.

The core characterization centered around one of the fandom's most favorite topics: What had kept Dean from finishing high school? _After School Special_ seemed to put him on a fairly-reckless scholarly track, but he went regularly, didn't he? And he certainly was reasonably smart. So what happened? What suddenly shifted? And aside from his own personal choices, how could the scholarly-oriented Sam have let his older brother quit? Or even their father who, while being incredibly focused on hunting, I could also imagine as someone who would make his eldest son finish high school at the minimum?

_Less Traveled By_ is my take on this question. Deciding not to finish high school at the final stretch was Dean's final turning away from the normal, natural world. It wasn't just about school anymore, but his inability to feel like he fit in it or that it fit his life. I thought he had to be completely 'misshapen' to not want to finish high school with so little left of it: he felt he failed at normal, his timing was off (symbolized by his having been left behind by his class), he didn't understand the rules the same way he understood the supernatural. These factors moved his personal choice. As for Sam and his father miraculously shutting up and giving him exactly what he wanted... I thought he had to seem spectacularly vulnerable and at the same time unshakably determined for them to support his decision, instances that I think _Less Traveled By _also provided.

Sam

As I mentioned as far back as the first chapter, one of the driving forces behind the writing of _Less Traveled By_ is that while I find season 6 Sam compelling, I miss 'Sammy' too, haha, and I hope I managed to convey that characterization in this fic. Smart, driven, assertive, precocious but compassionate, Sam as we know and love him, in the teenager-incarnation he didn't exactly completely shake even as he got older in seasons 1-5. I wanted him to be a little bit adolescent-surly, a little bit moody, sometimes prim, sometimes oblivious.

_Less Traveled By_, is in my eye, a coming-of-age story (as I find most pre-series pieces would be), and is about two developments on this character: (1) the stirrings of his rebellion against his father; and more importantly, (2) Why dream up law school? We know from _After School Special_ that his eyes were opened by his teacher to other possibilities for his future, and that he was a good writer. But why law school? My version of an answer is that Sam eventually going away to Stanford Law wasn't just about escape, but also about pursuit. He wasn't just running away from the hard hunting life, he was addressing the problems of the world in his own way. His father chose the hunt and so did his older brother, but he chose the law in a similarly informed and conscientious capacity; it's not a less moral job, there are also human monsters, and sometimes they got away, so sometimes you needed natural-world warriors too.

John

Fans seem to be very conflicted about this character; but love him or hate him, he's certainly compelling and all over the fandom. I always try to depict a balance between his love for his sons, his single-mindedness in the hunt, his sense of responsibility for others, and his inalienable negligence of his family. These are a lot of responsibilities, after all, and there's just one of the guy to go around, haha. Seriously though... I hope _Less Traveled By_ was fair to this character. I don't think there's any question of whether or not he loves his kids, it's just always a question of how large his blinders are, haha... there are just some things he doesn't _see _right away.

Bobby

If there was one character I may have been unfair to in _Less Traveled By_, I think it was just the sheer 'utility' of Bobby here. I didn't show any development or depth at all. But I needed him in there for John to have a sounding board, and to make John's characterization richer. In many ways I thought about Bobby's depiction in this fic as the angel on John's right shoulder, or the physical embodiment of his better-self, the man who could have been the boys' dad if he wasn't running on overdrive all the time. The series uses him very practically too, I think, depicting him as the guy brought in mid-epi or toward the end with the phone calls and the rescues and the answers, so I didn't think it veered too far away from what we're all used to.

The Original Characters

I think it's always a challenge bringing in OCs in fanfiction, so how I tried to do it to keep people engaged is that the fic was never in their perspective, and their scenes were always in some reference to the main characters. Despite these limitations, I still hope that you found them at the very least tolerable, and hopefully somewhat likable too. The worst that could happen is they end up feeling imposing or frivolous, which I hope was not the case.

This was one of the biggest challenges I had in writing the fic, and one of the reasons why I agonized, say around Chapter 10, about writing that Annie had a crush on Dean. I thought, and you have to admit this wouldn't be beyond us fans, haha, that some readers would groan and say,_ oh no, romance_, haha. So I just tried to be as careful as possible, and I hope that came across. This is a story about our boys, but the characters on the periphery are always around to help us tell that story better. I really hope I managed to stay on this track.

**IV. Massive Thanks and Responses**

Thanks to all who read, alert-ed, favoriote-d and especially all who reviewed _Less Traveled By_. I know you all shared your time with me, which I value profoundly!

This is the first time I've ever ever crossed the 150-review mark for a _Supernatural _fic so I really really wanted to thank everyone who made the time and effort to review _Less Traveled By_. I know everyone is busy, but I was just especially touched by people helping me out by sharing their thoughts and providing encouragement. I always say this is the only income we get from writing here, haha, and so reviewers: Thank you for feeding me and keeping this fic alive to its final conclusion.

Below you will find your names in alphabetical order, but I kind of have poor vision (and likely poor alphabetizing skills too haha) so if I missed anyone, call me out on it, as I firmly believe that everyone who reviews deserves a hearty shout out :) Lots of love to:

A Girl, Adorereading, AlecDeanFan, alwaysateen, AmyNY, Anne1013, apester, apieceofcake, Aranna Undomiel, AuntTora, Bartlebead, borgmama1of5, Beatlesfan90/Britt, Blume, BranchSuper, BreezyFlow, Calamity Jim, CeCe Away, Creative Spark, Cushion, deangirl1, Death-Muncher, dreamlitnight, dstrbd child, dk-joy, Etrixan, fifimom, Ghostwriter, Grecian, Haylia Jones, Heartless BytchhakaHelenBach1, Hjalmar, I'mcalledZorro, Iritllan, JustShyOfMe, Karone, Evertree, Katiki, The Kritty, leahk80, lilykep, Lisa Paris, lizard971, lobita, lotchness

magoghair, Marlowe97, Mayhem21/Thalia013, masondixon, Maz101, McB, mcmario, Meggin Lane, The Metronome Maven, michallev, Mischa Kitsune, moira4eku, monkeymuse, NongPradu, penless, PhoenixDragonDreamer/Mandy, Psychee, Rosetta Brunestud, sassafras224, Scanilla, SerpahimXII, Slinky-and-theBloddyWands, Suicidal Queen, Tari Roo, teal-lover, Viper-67, Von, winjen, xXMistressMadHatterXx, zoeysgirl, and zuimar! :)

**V. The Next Project: **_**Ever This Day Chapter 4, Angel of God**_

_Ever This Day _is a series of one-shots of Dean as seen through the eyes of Castiel. I've posted three stand-alone chapters on this fic on fanfiction . net already, and am working on the fourth one, entitled _Angel of God_. Some of you may be aware that these one-shots are some of my personal favorites of all time; I think they are some of my best work (though not necessarily the most popular, they have allowed me to be at my most experimental, philosophical and theological, haha) so if you have time, give them a shot :)

Below, you will find a summary and a preview of the fourth installment, which may or may not be posted, like all these low-commitment previews of mine, haha. Seriously though, a lot of things are going on in my life right now, I've been contemplating fandom retirement, and I'm just hoping I can still get any fanwork done at this point or at some point soon, because the only time I have to write is when I should be asleep, haha. Anyway, for your consideration:

Title: _Angel of God_

Summary: _After _Free to Be You and Me. _As the search for God continues, Castiel comes upon what he first thought to be a fairly simple solution – Let Dean die and wait for God to intervene, or let Dean die and make him look for God in Heaven. Either way it comes down to letting Dean die, and it is a loss much harder to bear than he anticipated._

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_Preview_

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Castiel watched the hunter's hunched back, as he picked up apples on all fours on the grounds of the massive orchard. He had a sack with him made out of burlap, a third of the way full. He would reach out for an apple, consider it, and then either toss it into the sack or back on the ground.

"Hello Dean," he finally makes his presence known.

Dean is unsurprised this time; dreams tended to be like that, where unexpected things made sense just being around. The hunter just looks up at him, and then rises to his feet as he dusts his hands on his weather-worn jeans, "Cas, I'm kinda busy."

"Picking apples," Castiel said.

"No, keeping myself from being annoyed," Dean snapped, "But yeah, that too."

"Why are you picking apples?" the angel asked.

"'Cos I'm baking a pie, that's why!" Dean retorted as if it was the most obvious thing in the world before he could think, and just before his face crumpled, "Oh, man. I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

Castiel opened his palms up to the hunter in acquiescence, "But this would be one of my favorite settings, for your dreams."

"How many have you-" Dean stammered, "You know what? I don't wanna know. What are you doing here, man?" he made as if to go back to apple-picking before he checked himself, and just shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I need to speak to you about something," Castiel said, "And this is the one place where your reaper could not follow."

"My... my reaper?" Dean asked, and one of his hands flew to his chest, just over his heart, in fleeting remembrance.

"What was the last thing you remember before this place?" Castiel asked him.

"I was in the motel," Dean said carefully as he thought, brows furrowing, "I was tired and I fell asleep, I think. I woke up later and... and everything..." he gasped, fell to his knees because the memory of the pain suddenly seemed accessible, as if he would wake back to reality and the pain would just be there, right beneath a thin, thin curtain-

"Stay with me," Castiel told him quietly, squatting in front of him and pressing two fingers to his forehead. Awake in the real world, the touch would have made him fall asleep, but in the world of dreams, it kept him _here_.

"Everything hurt," Dean said, voice strained, looking at the angel searchingly, "Felt like I was burning. I couldn't breathe, I could barely move. I called for help."

"You were taken to the hospital in an ambulance," Castiel told him, "There is a violent infection from a wound you caught in some hunt or other. Nothing unnatural about it; you have been lax, your blood is poisoned, and it has now gone on into your heart."

"You were saying..." Dean pressed fingers over his eyes, "You were saying I had a reaper on me. You're saying I'm dying."

He was taking it better than Castiel expected.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, "I have heard about it in my travels, but now I know for sure."

Dean sighed, "And who's been yapping about that?"

"A couple of reapers," Castiel enumerated, "There's one with a particular interest in your acquisition - unfinished business, I've come to understand. She told me you would know. The information was the same from the few angels who would still dare to speak with me... so you see, I have heard about this from here and there."

"Great," Dean breathed, "That's just fantastic. So no use being around the hospital then, huh?"

"I would not say so," Castiel told him, "It eases your pain by magnitudes."

"That's a relief," Dean scoffed, looking away from the angel, remembering the strands of hurt he had just tasted, unbearable even in their relative distance from where he was.

"Sam's gonna kill me when I die," Dean reflected with a wince, "I got this cut on my arm a couple of days back, then I was just on this shit-dirty hunt. I think I picked up a bug from there, I'd be surprised if I didn't. Arm's been hurting like a sonofabitch, and I guess whatever hit me's in the blood now, like you said. The ticker's been feeling all funny and I'm not an idiot, I usually know when I'm out of my league. But I guess I made the call a little too late, huh?"

"Yes," Castiel conceded before adding, "But we are on the cusp of a magnificent opportunity."

Dean blinked at that, before actually laughing, "Well at least one of us is happy."

"Don't you think," Castiel began, "That if you died, and God meant you for other things, that He would come, and intervene? To try and right things?"

"I've died before," Dean said with a grunt, "I'm pretty sure he let it happen every time."

"And yet here you are," Castiel said, "And things are notably different now: you have a job to do, a role to play. You are Michael's vessel, you are the righteous man who can fix things. Better still, that we'd know to look. If He brought you back again, we'd know somehow. Besides, if He does not stop your death here, maybe you can look for Him, in Heaven."

"Why are you bothering asking me anyway?" Dean asked, "If I'm dying, I'm dying, right? It might as well be useful for something so sure, yeah, I'll play along. Not like I have a choice, do I?"

Castiel pressed his lips together in thought.

"Cas?" Dean pressed, "I mean I don't have any choice here, right? Not like you can heal me but you'd rather not and you're asking me if I could _please_ just die instead?"

"I can't heal you," Castiel said gravely, "I am cut off."

"So why are you bothering asking me?" Dean insisted.

"Because I mean to watch," Castiel replied, "Very closely."

Dean paused, let the idea sink in for a long moment. It would be a long, drawn-out, painful,_ ugly _death and they both knew it. Castiel would hear his fevered, ravenous ranting and raving and crying, would watch as he spewed out breath and sweat and tears and blood and disease.

"Fair enough," Dean said finally, "How long do I have?"

"A few days," Castiel answered.

"You think I'm coming back though, right?" Dean asked, brows furrowing, "You think god will come in and save the day and spare the vessel. I won't be like... dead-dead. Like, _forever-_dead."

"I believe so..." the angel hesitated.

"Cas," Dean told him, eyes piercing, "Level with me here, all right? Please. What I'm really asking you is this: should I call my brother and say goodbye?"

Castiel stared at him for a long moment, before answering, "I have faith that He will intervene, or at worst, welcome you in Heaven."

"Faith," Dean grumbled, "Fan-fricking-tastic. Because it works every freaking time after all, right? I mean of course it's gonna work today, it's gonna work today because we really need it _this time_, not like the other times when _noooo_, we were asking for help but we were just making that shit up. Today's the day god is gonna answer. Out of all the days we've ever asked for help, today's gonna be the day-"

Castiel stepped out of Dean's dreams.

TO (MAYBE) BE CONTINUED...

C&C's welcome as always and 'til the next post!


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